


The Kiss Scene

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: A lot of peter pan references, Actor Pete, Bandom Big Bang 2018, Basically it's really cute, Crushes, First Kisses, M/M, Peter Pan - Freeform, Pining, So many cliches, Some Fluff, Some angst, Summer Love, Theater AU, Trust, cliches, faith - Freeform, i think, pixie dust, referenced homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: Patrick's summer isn't supposed to be anything other than charity work before college, time spent with a doting aunt and disgruntled uncle. It's not supposed to be memorable or special or fun.And it's not supposed to include Peter Pan.An actor with a troublesome smile and secretive name, Peter promises Patrick all the magic of Neverland if Patrick promises him his faith and trust. Peter promises Patrick a chance to fly if Patrick promises him his first kiss as the love interest in a local play.One kiss scene; one night only.It's all just acting, right?(Theater AU)





	The Kiss Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my dive into the world of Bandom Big Bang! This piece took far longer than it had any right to and I'm still not 100% sure about the end result but here we are! It's cute and it's lovely and it's all based on a daydream from so long ago...
> 
> Before we get into the larger fic, let me shout some amazing people out!
> 
> [Folie_aplusieurs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/folie_aplusieurs/pseuds/folie_aplusieurs) is the best person ever and I love her so much for betaing this fic. She doesn't want the credit but there are some amazing ideas and lines in here that I couldn't have ever found without her :) 
> 
> Also, [justtothesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justtothesea/pseuds/justtothesea) made this fantastic video to go along with the fic. It's absolute magic and captures the attempted tone so perfectly! I might have squealed and fangirled relentlessly upon seeing it so, please, go watch and give it some love. I promise it is worth all your time. [Click here to see it!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yB4R3vAqQAs)
> 
> Anyway, this fic was a monster to write and, while I wasn't able to edit it as often or as closely as I might have liked (meaning I apologize in advance for any and all typose), I truly hope you enjoy every word.
> 
> Now.
> 
> One. Two. Three.
> 
> Off to Neverland!!!

When the city fades into a small town and when the late morning slips into early evening— when the soundless road becomes dirt and potholes and the fancy buildings reshape into quaint cottage-style homes— Patrick still isn’t sure if he’s falling asleep or just waking up.

“ —and just because you’re volunteering at the daycare doesn’t mean you can slack off with helping your aunt and uncle at home. They’re being very generous by letting you stay so make sure you—” Patrick’s mother rambles from the front seat, her voice travelling in and out of his thoughts, jarring with one word but inaudible the next. His father mumbles along with words of agreement, though his eyes focus on the narrow neighborhood street before them.

Patrick stares out the window, blinking away his own opinions on what they have to say.

As his mother trails off, her voice finding a new use with aggravated searches for the right address, Patrick shuts his eyes. 

It’s like waking from a nightmare he can’t recall— a nightmare with vague details, with conversations he never spoke in. Something about driving halfway across the state, resignation clutching his throat as the miles they drove keep adding up. He imagines he can bury himself alive in every expectation his parents expressed on the drive, every word of theirs pasting itself across his lips— gagging, choking, muting him without a struggle.

“Oh, that house, David,” his mother says, pointing down the street. “I recognize those roses in her yard. Garish, don’t you think?”

After a few seconds of achingly slow driving, the car pulls to a stop and Patrick’s stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot. His mother snaps at him to collect his things but he already has both bags in his hands before the words are fully out.

“Now, remember, behave and be grateful. And write down everything you do for the daycare. You already got accepted but I don’t know one college that doesn’t appreciate above and beyond volunteer work. If you do well this could help you join some of those student organizations your father always talks about.” His mother pauses and Patrick waits, either for his parents to open the doors or to change their minds. “Do you hear me, Patrick?”

Patrick’s shoulders slump and he licks his lips before speaking as if he can collect and hide the bitterness sure to be waiting there. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, go on, Aunt Kari’s waiting for you.” 

_ Good _ . Patrick smiles wryly as he struggles to open the door, tossing his bags out and heading to grab the rest from the trunk.  _ Good.  _ No goodbyes or farewells, nothing more than a reminder to just be  _ good _ .

When all his bags— small but many— are sprawled across the sidewalk and the trunk is shut, he sighs and looks back to the front of the car. The windows are rolled down and he waves half-heartedly as his mother and father start the car again.

“Bye,” he says, softer than the engine roaring back to life. Softer than his hope they’ll take him back home.

His mother waves; his father nods with a tired smile. 

The window rolls up and they drive down the street. 

Patrick’s hand falls back to his side and forms a fist. Fingernails dig into his palm but he’s not upset, he’s not upset, he’s not—

“Patrick? Tricky, honey, is that you?” His aunt’s voice is suddenly behind him, the unnaturally high tone of an adult trying to speak with a child. “Aw, sweetheart, come here! I didn’t even notice they’d dropped you off.”

“Hey, Aunt Kari,” Patrick says, turning to face the woman. She’s older than Patrick’s mother, gray hair curling alongside the red shade with soft wrinkles denting her face, but she’s always seemed livelier despite it. Blue-green eyes sparkle as she walks down the driveway to the young boy and Patrick can see chipped red polish on her nails when she extends her arms for a hug.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you, Tricky! You’ve grown so much!” 

It’s a lie— Patrick knows he hasn’t grown more than a handful of inches since sophomore year of high school— but Aunt Kari’s always been kinder than he deserves. 

“Good to see you, too,” Patrick says, pulling back from the hug with a weak smile. Aunt Kari pays it no attention as she begins collecting his bags in her arms, piling them up with ease. Patrick tries to help but she shoos him off with a small  _ tsk _ ing noise.

“Now, what kind of host would I be if I let you take these bags all by yourself? Your mom really should have helped you but I suppose she and your dad were late for that flight,” Aunt Kari says. Patrick winces.

“The flight doesn’t actually board until way later but… yeah, I guess you’re right.” He kicks at the sidewalk though he refuses to let his smile drop in front of his aunt.

“Well, they’ve always been a bit on the go,” Aunt Kari says dismissively. “Why don’t you head on back and I’ll take these to your room. Your uncle’s working in the backyard right now. It’d be great if you could give him a hand.”

“Oh, um, uh, sure,” Patrick says, following Aunt Kari back inside. She balances the bags on her arms and nods towards the back door when Patrick hesitates, lost in a house he’s never been in before. 

Uncle Greg’s not exactly Patrick’s favorite person and Patrick knows the feeling is mutual. For all the times Patrick’s seen them together, he can’t understand how he and Aunt Kari ended up together. Aunt Kari’s always smiling and finding something to laugh about; the world’s lucky if Uncle Greg understands a joke. Aunt Kari embraces her age and spends each birthday party excited about the years to come; Uncle Greg laments over his dwindling youth at least once per family dinner.

Aunt Kari at least pretends to enjoy Patrick’s presence; Uncle Greg feels no such obligation.

Patrick finds him trimming the trees and bushes, sweat dripping down his wrinkled forehead and across his rounded cheeks. He’s been out here a while, Patrick can tell, and he winces at the piles of wood and clippings collected by the door.

“U-Uncle Greg,” Patrick calls out, trying to smile when the man turns to face him. “Aunt Kari sent me to help you.”

Uncle Greg’s sunglasses slip down his face as he turns sharply to look at Patrick, a clear glare visible even through the lenses. Patrick steps back a bit, eyes widening.

“I thought their other kid was coming,” Uncle Greg says. “The one starting college.”

“Um, I… I am starting college?” Patrick says, scratching the back of his head and melting under Uncle Greg’s glare, even though the breeze is the kindest it’s been in months. “In fall? I know my mom emailed Aunt Kari about it.”

Uncle Greg’s eyes narrow further before he shrugs and tosses the clippers to the ground. “You look too damn young to be a college student. They’ll eat you alive in Phoenix.”

“Pennsylvania,” Patrick mutters, though he knows his uncle couldn’t care less. “I’m going to the University of Pennsylvania.”

“Oh. Same thing.” Uncle Greg tears off his work gloves and wipes a hand across his forehead, scowling deeper than before. “Go ahead and toss these clippings in the trash then come in. Dinner’s at seven, so don’t take too long.”

Patrick nods, biting on his lip and tensing when Uncle Greg walks past him, smelling exactly as Patrick would expect from someone working in a yard all day. When the back door slides shut, Patrick shakes his head and gets to work. It’s a better greeting than he’s had in the past from his uncle, though he would appreciate the man pointing out  _ where  _ to find the trash bin. 

Patrick takes his time with the job, careful not to cut himself on the sharper tree limbs or thorns. Aunt Kari would have a pair of work gloves for him if he voiced his concerns— hell, she’d do the job for him— but he’d rather waste time beneath the setting May sun than subject himself to an awkward dinner of scowls and forced smiles. He’ll see enough of those over the summer, anyhow.

He’s over halfway through and debating working slower when the temperature begins to drop and he pauses, pressing his fingers to his neck to try to keep them warm. It’s a futile effort and he considers the pros and cons of giving into the dinner when he hears it:

“Hey! Hey, kid!” It’s followed by a whistle, an attempt at something wolfish broken by the wind’s interruption. “Ugh, dude, over here.”

Patrick stops and drops his hands to his side, turning to face the back fence. The house’s backyard faces a sidewalk— something Uncle Greg has always complained about— but it’s a good distance away and, usually, no one bothers them.

No one, it seems, but dark-haired boys with makeup and excited smiles.

Patrick blinks, keeping his distance. “Um, hey?”

“Hey.” Dark-haired boy’s smile widens. He has a shoebox in his hands but he shifts it under his arm in order to wave enthusiastically. “I didn’t know Kari and Greg had a kid.”

“They don’t.” Patrick shifts his weight, frowning. “I’m their nephew.”

“Oh, even cooler.” The other boy looks down, digging through the shoebox before pulling out a half-sheet of paper. “Here, I’m passing these out.”

“To backyards?” Patrick raises an eyebrow. The other boy rolls his eyes, though his smile stays fixed in place.

“To people.”

“Huh.” Patrick purses his lips, taking a step forward. “What is it?”

“If you took it, you’d find out,” the other boy singsongs, waving the paper back and forth. “You know you want to know.”

“I really don’t,” Patrick says. A few seconds pass— silent and judgemental— before he sighs dramatically and marches over towards the fence. The other boy grins in triumph and Patrick pointedly ignores it as he snatches the paper from his hand. He reads it, eyes narrowing. “A play?”

“Exactly,” flyer-boy says. “There’s this theater program at the local community college but they’re thinking of cutting off funding for it. So a group of us are putting on a play to bring awareness to it and all that.”

“Noble,” Patrick says, shoving the paper into his back pocket. “But I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“Read the paper, dummy. It’s calling for auditions.”

Patrick’s eyebrows furrow together. “Auditions? But what’s the pla—”

“Tricky! Dinner’s ready!” Aunt Kari’s voice cuts through the air like a knife through a flower stem. Patrick cringes, already knowing what’s going to happen.

“ _ Tricky _ ?” The boy before him smirks. “Nice to meet you,  _ Tricky _ .”

“Shut up,” Patrick snaps. “It’s just… just a stupid… oh, you know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you!”

“Sure you don’t. Go on, then, dinner’s getting cold,” the boy laughs. Patrick rolls his eyes, certain his face is twenty shades of red right now. 

“Whatever,” he says, folding his arms and turning. “You won’t see me auditioning for anything with that sort of behavior.” 

The other boy continues to laugh, the sound not nearly as annoying as it should be. He doesn’t speak until Patrick’s already halfway through the back door.

“See you later, Tricky!” He calls. “The play definitely needs someone as spirited as you!”

Spirited? Patrick shakes his head, waving half-heartedly over his shoulder as he goes inside. 

“Who were you talking to out there?” Aunt Kari asks when he steps into the kitchen to wash his hands. Uncle Greg looks over, eyebrow raised, and Patrick only shrugs.

“Just some kid handing out flyers,” he says. “Nothing important.”

“Be careful about people like that,” Uncle Greg says gruffly, sounding as if he truly believes he’s giving some sage advice. “They’ll try to trick you into doing all kinds of things you don’t want.”

“Now, Greg, you know full well I pass out flyers to recruit for my volunteer work,” Aunt Kari chides. Uncle Greg scoffs.

“And look how many people that got,” he says.

Aunt Kari rests a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “It brought Patrick here, didn’t it?”

“His parents brought him here.”

“Well, you know, his mother wouldn’t have known if not for—”

“Kari…”

Patrick sits down, letting their words become background noise. 

Background noise. Everything is background noise to him. Far better to entertain himself with daydreams about other worlds and escape, fantasies where conversations are interesting or, at least, include him.

Daydreams and fantasies he’d be lucky to ever see come true.

By the time dinner’s over, he’s lost in his thoughts and the flyer in his pocket is all but forgotten.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick finds no reason to leave the house for the first week and his hosts are no help in the matter. Aunt Kari finds something new for him to do each day, from arranging knick-knacks to clearing out every scattered niche in the basement. Besides, it’s not like he’d have anything to do around the neighborhood. The sky is always cloudy— nothing but low-hanging fog that teases him with ragged patches of blue overhead. His aunt occasionally mutters about her hopes for a rainy summer, a pen cap between her teeth as she finishes up the details of her volunteer project.

Aunt Kari’s too kind for her own good, Patrick’s come to learn. His parents had sent him here to help her with community service but, when he’d heard daycare, he’d imagined it to be something like babysitting or painting a few rooms. 

His aunt, though, has other plans.

“The church hasn’t been used in years so a couple of the teachers from the high school pitched in to buy and remodel it. They’re thinking of making it into a daycare,” Aunt Kari says one day while Patrick’s trying to figure out the coffee machine. He looks over to the red-headed woman and she smiles at his perplexed expression. “They’re great people and I just had to tell them I would help lead the project. Cleaning it all up will be tedious but I know it’ll be worth it in the end. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Patrick blinks. “Right.” 

As Aunt Kari gets back to budgeting the project, Patrick gives up on the coffee. He wouldn’t be surprised if Aunt Kari didn’t understand why his parents sent him here. He’s sure “friends” were the furthest things from their minds. 

Still, motive means nothing as he buckles into the passenger seat of Aunt Kari’s sputtering dirt-caked truck. He’s silent as they drive the few blocks to the church— or daycare, or whatever they’re calling it— but Aunt Kari does enough talking for the both of them. 

It’s one of the few traits she must share with her sister.

“So, today’s going to be simple. There’s some leftover furniture in the church— fold-up tables and chairs and whatnot— so we’re gonna drag all that out and pile it into the bed of the truck so I can take it down to the ARC. I don’t imagine it’ll take too long unless the inventory Dale sent me was wrong but I trust her numbers. That woman’s always been better at math, it’s almost infuriating. Oh, but I just can’t stay upset with her for very long,” Aunt Kari rambles. “I’m working on being excited for my friends but, let me tell you, it’s been a process.”

“Uh huh,” Patrick says for the hundredth time as they pull into the church parking lot. It’s small but Patrick can see the appeal if he imagines himself as a small-town boy. Vibrant shades of green surround the building in the form of grass and bushes, half-grown trees and even weeds blooming from the sidewalk cracks. It’s presented at the front of the neighborhood, the plot of land small but beckoning with its lack of gates or fences. Nothing crowds the church; nothing closes in. It’s alone, proud, and Patrick finds himself lamenting that it will need to be changed so drastically.

Then, of course, he steps out of the car. And, then, he understands.

Though the lawn before the building is lively, dirty paint peels from the church’s sides as a testament to the years of weather and neglect. The doors hang open, hinges broken, and more than a few windows have cracks extending across the pane. Pressed against the backdrop of another overcast day, the dull brown and eggshell tones of the church blend the building into something that could be fake, could be trying to hide. Without anything nearby, though, it stands out like a cast on an arm— advertising its fragility, proming its brokenness. 

Aunt Kari jumps out of the truck and slaps Patrick’s shoulder. “A fixer-upper, isn’t she? Now you see why you’re here till August. Come on, then, let’s get to work.” 

She hurries ahead without him, digging for keys in her pocket though the door has no locks to be seen. Slowly, more cars pull up alongside his aunt’s truck, cars filled with other excited men and women, laughing about their labor of love and planning extravagance. 

When the lights in the church turn on, Patrick slumps his shoulders and gets to work.

The day lasts longer than Patrick, with his already impossibly low expectations, had thought it would. For such a small building, it holds an innumerable amount of useless furniture and left behind belongings. As Patrick tosses a singular sock onto the back of his aunt’s truck, holding his breath to keep from gagging, he bets against himself of how much of this the thrift store will end up accepting. 

Emptying out the church is a task which takes a number of days, what with everyone’s agreement that the yellowing wallpaper and torn up carpets should be tossed out, as well. Every day, for nearly a week, Patrick returns back to his aunt and uncle’s home with a new layer of dust across his skin, a new thread of resignation and exhaustion tied around his voice. Every day, for nearly a week, he sinks deeper into the mindset that  _ my summer is nothing more than cleaning up a church and smiling at people who don’t even care to ask my name _ .

It’s on Friday when his thoughts stop twisting and, instead, shift.

He’s helping to tear off the wallpaper in the office, something meant to appear white and pure but is tainted by water stains and other messes Patrick would rather not think about. One of the school teachers is helping him, the Dale his aunt had been speaking of. She doesn’t talk much, thank goodness, but her smile is motherly whenever Patrick bites back his pride and asks for help. 

The two are nearly done, on the last strip, when Dale bumps into the wall, her elbow flicking up the switch for the fan. 

Without hesitation, the fan sputters to life and dust invades the air like a plague. 

The open window does its best to help, sucking out some of the sullied air but not nearly enough; more than half of the dust, it feels, finds a new home amongst Patrick’s lungs. 

He bends over sharply, the grains of dirt and dust punching into his chest and scattering around the back of his mouth as he strives to catch his breath. Dale shuts the fan off as quickly as she’d turned it on but the damage is already done, Patrick’s lungs aching and itching with the lack of clean air. Each sharp gasp is another reason to choke, another attack inside his chest. Dust stings his eyes, tears from the irritation and coughing collecting in them. He fists a hand in the front of his own shirt, bending nearly in half as he tries to remember if his aunt knows about his inhaler— tries to remember if he brought it with him at all.

His throat seems to shrink and he can only pray that he doesn’t give into one of his worst enemies: an asthma attack.

The thought had barely entered his mind when Dale’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders, pushing and directing him out of the dust-filled room.

“Okay, honey, out the door now, you hear me? Gotta get you outside, that’s a helluva cough you got there.” 

Patrick merely nods along to her words, choking into the crook of his arm as he blindly trusts Dale to lead him outside. 

“Deep breaths. We’re almost there.” Dale’s hands leave for a second and Patrick hears a door, unaware of when he’d shut his eyes but cracking them open the second a gust of summer breeze hits his face. “Can you breathe any better out here?”

Patrick doesn’t answer, hacking up remaining dust and nearly crying in relief when breathing in occurs without any dirt or pain. The air fills his lungs, washing out the dust as he coughs a few more times, each one wracking his body but none of them as bad as they were. Dale stands at his side, rubbing his back and murmuring encouraging words to “get all the dirt out, that’s right.” 

Eventually, with tears lining his bottom lashes, Patrick shuts his eyes. He’s still bent over, hands on his knees, but more from the exhaustion of the fit than anything else. 

“I’ll go see if anyone brought any water, alright? You sound like you could use it.” 

Patrick nods, all too aware of the shaky raggedness of his breath. He drops his head even lower and tries to even it out, careful not to set off another fit. 

It’s nice outside, the sun beaming down through a thin layer of clouds and filling the day with a lukewarm breeze. It’s silent, too, with nothing but the occasional chirp of birds overhead.

Birds and, then, distant laughter.

Patrick opens his eyes and glances up at the sound of a familiar voice, a voice like one he may have heard but never recognized. A group of teenagers and other young adults cluster on the sidewalk across the street, pushing and laughing and having fun.

In the middle, Patrick sees the dark-haired boy from the backyard. The one with the shoebox and play flyers. The one with the bright eyes and cocky smile.

Patrick stays still as if any movement could alert the boy to his presence. His laughter’s loud when one of his friends makes a joke, unintelligible words but in a tone Patrick recognizes as teasing. It’s an obnoxious braying sound but it’s happy, lively.

It’s the sound every summer should have.

Heat floods Patrick as he stands straight up, watching the group as they pass by. They’re still acting like kids though they must be near Patrick’s age, goofing around and wasting time. Does it make Patrick petty to feel jealous of their smiles?

He ignores his own question, wiping his hands off on his jeans and turning away to face the church. It’s as broken down as it was the day he first saw it, no progress to be seen. Sure, his aunt had explained her hopes and visions but who’s to say that’s true? Who’s to say Patrick isn’t wasting his time with all of this?

One summer. One more summer before college and business and keeping his parents satisfied. One more summer before he has nowhere to go but the path his parents set out for him. One more summer before his mother and father force him to grow into the prosperous son, meant only to make them proud.

One more summer that he can call his own.

Patrick grits his teeth; his hands form fists.

He has one more summer.

And he sure as hell isn’t spending it all on this.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick runs a hand through his hair for the tenth time that night. He worries his lip between his teeth and bounces his leg up and down. He fidgets with the brightness of his phone; he turns on one of his favorite songs.

He tries not to admit to himself how stupid he’s being. 

“It’s not stupid,” he breathes, the words doing nothing to calm him down. “It’s just… an interest.”

Right.

With a defeated sigh, he looks back down to his phone.

The screen displays the home page for a local college’s theater program— a theater which, apparently, is in peril of losing it’s funding, just like that boy had explained. The pictures for it are cute but it appears more as another college administration building: brick walls and posters pasted across them. As Patrick glances through the site, it seems more normal than anything else. Unexciting, unworthy of his time. Something to turn his back on.

Then he remembers the boy with the flyers— the one with the beat-up shoebox tucked under his arm and a smile Patrick’s sure would save the theater if only he could bottle and sell it. Nothing about him was normal and, Patrick’s found, the extreme is a better indication of the norm than anything else.

With something like excitement— something like fear— twisting in his stomach, Patrick punches the address for the theater into his phone’s GPS app. It loads quickly, not allowing him time to realize how foolish he’s being.

He grits his teeth, hissing his words out more harshly this time. “Not. Stupid.”

The theater’s a bit away, he finds when he works up the patience to look back down. A few bus routes connect the space between here and there but he’s never understood how those work. He could ask his aunt but that would require an explanation— an admission that he hates the charity work and wants to do something his parents would kill him for. He doesn’t even think of asking Uncle Greg.

It should be a sign that this isn’t meant to be and that only a disaster could follow. Some divine intervention or the work of his future self fixing a god awful mistake. 

These thoughts last for barely a moment and, instead, Patrick finds himself screenshotting the walking directions. It’s summer, anyway. A few long walks never did anyone any harm.

Getting on a stage, though… Patrick shudders at the idea. He hates the concept and feels sick at the notion but that boy’s damn smile… his infuriating tone… Patrick’s mind is made up before nausea fully sets in.

In the hallway, a floorboard squeaks and Patrick shuts his phone off without a thought, tossing it under his pillow. Aunt Kari had instilled a stern “no tech after dinner” rule— though Uncle Greg’s probably still plopped in front of the TV, Patrick thinks bitterly— and he hardly wants to push his luck any further than he has so far. If she finds out about his plan to audition… If she tells his mother or father…

The door opens and Aunt Kari pokes her head in just as Patrick’s pulling the covers up over his legs. Her hair’s a bit more frazzled than usual, out of its typical ponytail or bun, but Patrick’s more concerned by the lines crowding her eyes and lips. 

“Hey, Tricky,” she says, tone soft. “What are you up to?”

Patrick swallows. He tries to shrug but it feels more like a shake. “Um, nothing? Getting ready for bed, I guess.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Aunt Kari frowns, waiting a beat before continuing. “Greg and I noticed that you seemed a bit out of it at dinner tonight. You know you can talk to us if anything’s up, right?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m good. Just adjusting to being away from home. That’s all.” Patrick smiles, laughing off her concerns even as an awkward weight settles on his chest. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize, sweetheart,” Aunt Kari says, seemingly unaware that Patrick’s entire life is one constant apology. “Your mother used to get some summertime blues, you know. Lock herself up in her room as a result of some misguided teen misanthropy. I know Greg and I are busy but you can always talk to us. Or your parents. Have you texted them yet? I’m sure they’re settled in.”

Yeah, Patrick’s sure of that, too. The two of them off on some vacation disguised as business conferences and conventions. Whatever they’re doing, he knows they’re too busy to check their messages. The lack of responses to his texts is more than enough proof of that. His smile twitches.

“Really, I’m fine. Just… bored, I guess.” Patrick clears his throat as Aunt Kari nods understandingly. “Hey, so, um, c-can I ask a question?”

Aunt Kari’s eyes widen and her nod becomes frantic. “Oh, of course! What you need, honey?”

Patrick cringes but continues, spluttering for words. “You haven’t, um, you know, heard of some theater being shut down? Some kid came by a bit ago and asked about that. I was just, I guess, curious if that was true. Since we’re all working on abandoned buildings and stuff.”

If Aunt Kari was expecting a deeper question, she doesn’t let it show. She pauses her nodding, lifting her lips in a gentle smile. “Oh, yes, you must be talking about Neverland. Some man dedicated it to the local college ages ago. He couldn’t legally name it after that Peter Pan story but rumor has it he called it that silly name so often that it stuck. It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? I’ve seen plenty of shows over there and, let me tell you, those kids have talent. If I could save it from the funding loss, well, I’d be on a one-woman mission right now. It doesn’t deserve to be all changed up and forgotten.”

“But isn't that what’s happening with the church?” Patrick asks, leaning forward and toying with a loose string on the blankets. “Like, you’re changing that and I don’t think you have a problem with it.”

“Oh, honey.” Aunt Kari’s tone is just like the word she used— honey sweet, dripping with such endearment Patrick has no choice but to glance up into her warm eyes. “Some things just need the chance to change and grow to find what they’re really meant to be. Others? Well, they’re fine just the way they are and don’t need anything more than a bit of love and understanding.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The exuberant feeling of summer and freedom is palpable before Patrick’s halfway through the doors of the theater. It’d almost be infectious if Patrick wasn’t already too busy fighting down the urge to throw up.

He follows the sound of conversation through the lobby and into the theater itself, a moderately sized room with too many seats crammed into rows and a large stage extending from the front. Dozens of people— from school kids to college students, it seems— scatter around the area, some chasing others while the rest line against the right wall with packets of papers in their hands. Scripts, Patrick assumes when he sees their mouths all moving in worried rushes. 

No one seems to have noticed his presence. A blessing and a curse. He makes it only a few feet before fear takes over, locking him in his spot.

What the hell is he doing? Sneaking around? Breaking his parents’ rules? He should be home; he should be at the store like he told Aunt Kari he would be. He should be going for a walk or run or quick exploration of the neighborhood. He should be anywhere but  _ here _ . If his parents found out… Patrick feels sick at the thought.

Of course, the second he begins to turn is the exact moment he makes eye contact with a stranger and sends them rushing in his direction.

“Hey, you here for the auditions, I’m assuming?” The guy asks when he reaches Patrick. He’s taller than Patrick and burlier, too, tattoos lining his pale arms in a way that causes Patrick to gulp. Sunglasses hide his eyes but the tone in his voice and the way he runs a hand through his red hair is enough to show how weary he is. “I’m Andy, the assistant director, so I can help you out. Do you know what part you’re auditioning for, yet?”

“The part?” Patrick pales, eyes widening. “I, uh, I, I don’t know yet, I—”

_ I don’t even know what fucking play you’re putting on _

Somehow, he doesn’t think that particular admission would gain him any favor amongst this troupe. 

Thankfully, Andy merely shrugs and hands Patrick a script from the pile of them shoved under his arm. 

“Just let Joe know when you get up there,” he says. “He’s the actual director so casting is kinda his thing. But be quick about choosing, he’ll want you to read with someone from the cast and our lead is heading home in a bit.”

“Your lead?” Patrick asks, pinching his eyebrows together. Everything’s moving too quickly, too sudden for him to back out or catch up— whichever one he decides on doing first.

“Yeah, our lead.” Andy sighs, spitting out the next name with a reluctant scowl, lips distorted like the words themselves are sour. “ _ Peter _ .”

“Peter?” Patrick asks, following Andy’s gaze towards the stage. “And which one is h—  _ oh _ .”

The boy from before— the one with the compelling laugh, the entire reason for Patrick’s being here— stands on the stage in all his vibrant glory.

“I’m youth. I’m joy,” Peter recites lines on the stage, proclaiming the words as if he knows how true they are. He puts the other actor to shame with his presence, a script in his hand though he hardly glances at it. His other hand rests at his hip, cocked out to the side like the smile crookedly resting on his face. “I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.”

Even from across the theater, his delivery feels perfect. He owns the stage in a way Patrick’s only seen done by actors on Broadway and award show concerts and, though Patrick distinctly recalls him only being a hair taller, he almost seems larger than life as the scene continues. It’s the kind of acting that impresses everyone but especially impresses the hell out of Patrick.

For a moment, Patrick forgets there’s anyone else around until Andy clears his throat halfway through some monologue.

“Oh, he… Peter’s good,” Patrick says, stammering and fidgeting with the papers in his hands. Andy pays no attention to Patrick’s nerves, scoffing and laughing at the same time.

“Not usually,” he says. “He’s usually an extra if we’re lucky but, well, he’s at home with this character, I guess.”

“Huh,” Patrick says as the audition ends, another boy filing onto the stage with nervous steps. “Who’s he playing?”

Andy takes a while to answer, long enough for Patrick to tear his gaze away from the stage and into Andy’s narrowed eyes.

“Peter. I said that, right? Shit, kid, do you even know what play you’re trying out for?”

Patrick flushes before the question is fully out, glancing down at the script in a manner he know is far from discreet. 

**Peter Pan**

Oh. Patrick’s cheeks redden further, impossibly so. His head spins and he takes longer than he should to pick out an excuse.

“Y-Yeah, of course,” he spits out. Peter— ‘Peter’, Patrick supposes— begins his lines again, somehow with even more emotion than before. “I just, um. I wasn’t sure how closely you guys were planning on following the original. Can you… Can you just give me the gist of it? Please?”

Andy rolls his eyes and Patrick knows there’s no way he believes him. Still, Andy nods and gestures for Patrick to follow him towards the stage.

“I mean, it’s Joe’s vision so it’s far from the original,” he says. “Let’s just say that he got in a bit of a fight with some locals so this is his sneaky way of getting back at them. Or something like that. I don’t know, you’d have to read the script to fully get it. Or, at least, that’s what he told me.” Andy cuts off, waving to another boy with frizzy hair poofed around his head. “Joe, let’s give Peter a break and start on the Wendy auditions.”

“Aw, but I was really getting into the director mindset.” Though he protests, Joe stands and waves off the line of teens waiting to go onstage with their scripts. “Take five, guys. You, too, Peter! None of that diva ‘I refuse to leave the stage’ crap from yesterday.”

Patrick furrows his eyebrows at the casual use of ‘Peter’s’ name. It’s just the character name and they’ve made it clear the scene is done for now. Still, no one questions it and Patrick’s not going to be the first to do so.

“ —so hang here and look over the script,” Andy says, alerting Patrick to the fact he’d been talking. “I’m gonna speak with Joe about what roles are left.” Patrick barely has time to nod before Andy’s headed to Joe’s side with a sigh.

Patrick shifts awkwardly, suddenly alone and once again unsure of everything. He bites his lip and looks down to the papers in his hand.  _ Peter Pan.  _ Not really descriptive of any changes that may be inside but Andy had said it was meant to trick the locals— whatever that meant. Patrick flicks through the first few pages, his confusion only increasing as he finds nothing different from the movies he’s seen or the books he’s read. 

Peter Pan. Neverland. Second star to the right and all. 

What’s supposed to be different? Was it a trick? Was it a lie or some test to pass? And how is he supposed to know who to try out for if he doesn’t know what’s wrong? How is—

“Hey! You came!”

Patrick jumps, biting back an embarrassing squeak, and turns to face whoever snuck up on him. 

Dark hair, brown eyes. Cocky smile and a bit of makeup on his face.

Of course, it’s Peter.

“Oh, yeah.” Patrick smiles, twisting the script in his grip. “It seemed cool, I guess.”

“Cooler now that Tricky’s joined the party.” 

And just like that, Patrick’s smile begins to twitch. Whether it’s from the infuriating nickname or the humiliation of it, he’s uncertain.

“Right.” A beat passes. “Patrick, actually. And you are…?”

“Not gonna tell you.” Peter flashes a blinding smile as he laughs, loud and obnoxious. “Well, not yet, anyway. I’m one of the more methodical actors, you know? Won’t go by anything but the character name until opening night.”

Even offstage, his voice carries a beat like a performer’s, something that sends Patrick’s mind grasping for words.

“Oh?” He asks, blinking. “Do you… Do you do that for all plays? Because Andy said that you’re usually an extra and—”

“And if I could legally change my name to Partygoer Number Four, I would do it in a heartbeat, Tricky.” Peter grins and, for a moment, Patrick can’t think of any reasons to find his mannerisms strange.

“Well, anyway— wait, actually.” Patrick looks at the other boy thoughtfully, head tilted to the side. “Are you really gonna keep calling me that stupid nickname?”

“It’s not stupid, it’s endearing,” Peter says. Patrick rolls his eyes, his hands finding his hips.

“That’s what I thought. Well, Peter’s a bit of a mouthful, anyway. Would it throw off your acting if I called you—”

“Pan?” Peter butts in with a shrug. “A few other cast members already claimed that one but—”

“ _ Actually _ ,” Patrick presses, emphasizing his words with a hidden tone of  _ interrupt me again, I dare you _ . “I was thinking Pete. You don’t seem like a Peter so… Pete?”

It’s meant to be a joke, a tease about taking one letter off the iconic name as revenge. Patrick doesn’t really plan on going through with it but—

“Dude.” Peter’s smile grows to an impossible size, cheeks carrying the faintest hint of pink as he nods. “Dude,  _ yes _ .”

Patrick blinks, taken aback, but smiles all the same. An orchestra finds home in his stomach, playing notes that flutter like butterflies. 

“Anyway, I was just checking the play out so—”

“Peter! Back on the stage, you ready?” Joe’s voice interrupts Patrick’s. 

“Actually, I’m gonna pull a diva thing.” Peter— Pete— looks at Patrick as he speaks. From across the room, Joe sighs dramatically but it’s paid no mind. “I’m not gonna be happy unless Patrick plays John.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Auditions end and Patrick leaves with a script in his hands and a sweet-sour taste resting on his tongue. Joe had given into Pete with less argument than he probably should have, glancing Patrick over with a raised eyebrow before shrugging and writing Patrick’s name across his clipboard. 

“Your choice, your problem,” he’d told Pete. “Fill him in about rehearsals and shit, I need to tell Andy to have the other auditioners for the role go home.”

For a second, Patrick could pretend he felt special or chosen; for a moment, he did. It was easy to grin ear-to-ear about how simply, how quickly, the lead had handpicked Patrick and his role. For an instant, he wondered if this is how summer is meant to feel.

But then Pete’s smile became a smirk. He patted Patrick on the back and Andy raised his eyebrows at them from across the room. Patrick’s stomach had sunk quicker than his smile could drop; there was no way that either of those reactions could be good.

Thus, the sweet-and-sour flavor he keeps swallowing down as he exits the theater. 

He pauses at the door, licking his lips as he looks back down at the script. It’s a different version than the one he’d first received, one meant for the actors rather than the auditioners. Andy’s and Joe’s numbers are printed at the top, next to the rehearsal and performance times and dates, beneath the title.

**Peter And…**

Not  _ Peter Pan _ , as previously advertised. Not what Patrick had thought it was. He’d say it makes his head spin if it weren’t for the fact his head’s been spinning nonstop the entire day. 

“Hey!” 

Patrick grimaces, his guts twisting into knots as he turns.

“Oh, hey, Peter,” he says. Pete frowns, though it seems overdramatic and faked.

“What, no Pete?” He asks, somehow sounding truly wounded. Patrick cringes, wondering if he means the hurt or if he’s a better actor than Andy seems to think.

“Didn’t want to break you out of character, or whatever,” he says. It sounds sarcastic but Pete’s smile returns once more.

“Nah, not if you’re the only one who calls me that.”

Patrick smiles, ease slipping into his veins at Pete’s words.

“Fair enough,” he says. A second passes, a moment of something between comfortable and awkward before he clears his throat. “Anyway, um, you headed home, then?” 

“Oh, right! Yeah, but I wanted to give you my number, first.” A corner of Pete’s tongue sticks out from the side of his mouth as he reaches into his hoodie pockets, searching for what Patrick assumes must be a pen or pencil. A curse slips loose from his lips a handful of times but he finally pulls free from the pockets with a wooden pencil— half the size it should be and as dull as Patrick feels in this moment. 

“Your number?” Patrick asks, passing over his script when Pete gestures for it. 

“Yeah,” Pete says, scribbling out a collection of digits across the back of the papers. “So we can run lines sometime.”

“Oh.” Of course. Patrick looks away, willing his heated cheeks to cool down before Pete looks back up. “If I look up the number, will I learn your real name?”

He glances over in time to see Pete grinning as he finishes the numbers, eyes hidden by lashes that should be too long and dark to be exist. “That curious, are you?”

Patrick shrugs though he knows Pete can’t see. “Just wondering.”

“Well, don’t,” Pete says, finished and shoving the script back at Patrick. “You’d never guess, anyhow.”

Patrick’s lips part— to guess, to tease, to demand— but he shuts them slowly, shrugging once more. 

“I guess.” It sounds more resigned than he means it to, even if Pete brushes it aside with a smile.

“I live a bit past Kari’s house, you know. You need a ride?” 

“What?” Patrick asks, forehead scrunching up at the sudden offer. He doesn’t dare think of what Aunt Kari or Uncle Greg would say if they saw him dropped off by a random neighborhood boy. “Oh, no, it’s fine. If she— I mean, well, I like walking.” It’s followed by another shrug, one that has Patrick swearing he will break his own shoulders if he performs the action one more time. 

Pete, though, has no such qualms and shrugs— dramatically and without a thought. “Suit yourself. Good to enjoy the nice weather while it’s around, I guess.” Patrick expects him to leave— maybe with some stardust trailing behind him, from how brightly he shines— but Pete takes his time, leaning back and glancing over Patrick with an expression that couldn’t easily be called a smile. “See you around, Tricky.”

“See y—  _ ugh _ .” Patrick rolls his eyes to the beat of Pete’s laughter. “See you around,  _ Peter _ .”

Pete chuckles, the sound racing into Patrick’s veins with white-hot speed. 

By the time Pete’s turned to leave, Patrick’s barely convinced himself to give into his smile.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The walk back is warm, sunshine and summer painting a neverending blush on Patrick’s cheeks. He takes his time, lingering in the spots of happiness dripping from the air, oversaturated by the excitement of breaking rules, of making his own decisions.

He shoves the script under his jacket as he nears his aunt and uncle’s house, wincing at the corners poking through his thin t-shirt. Will they be onto him if he continues to smile like this, he wonders? Will they sense that anything’s off?

Patrick waits on the doorstep until the edges of his smile soften into something less energetic, something lackadaisical enough to pass for the weariness of a summer day. It sours his mood with reminders of other smiles he had to dim and other family members he had to show indifference around but it works well when he finally enters the home.

“Oh, look who it is.” Words that should sound accusing or indifferent twist into a tease as Aunt Kari pokes her head out from the kitchen, a dish towel still twisted around her hand as she waves. The smile feels like an anomaly, kind of like she should be scowling that he was late again. Patrick shakes his head; it’s only her resemblance to his mother that provides these thoughts and he’s determined not to think of that now. “How was the walk?”

“Alright,” Patrick says, toeing off his shoes. “I feel like I know the neighborhood a bit better now so that’s cool.” 

“That’s wonderful.” Aunt Kari turns for a moment, brows furrowing together as Uncle Greg says something indiscernible from the other room. “It was just a few hours, Gregory. I’m sure you spent your summers outside. Anyway.” She turns back to Patrick, her smile flashing like it never left. “Why don’t you get all washed up and then meet us back down here for dinner? I’m just waiting on Greg to finish mashing the potatoes then we’re done. Oh, unless you want to help set the table.”

“I—” Patrick blinks, unsure whether Aunt Kari’s words are serious or not. Such phrases back home are rarely jocular and it takes Patrick longer than he’d like to admit to realize his aunt’s snickering at him. “I’ll go wash up.”

“Alright, hun,” Aunt Kari says, ducking back into the kitchen. “Just be quick about it!”

“Yep,” Patrick says. He does as he’s told, hurrying his steps, passing by closets and bedrooms until he’s in his own, the script pulled free from beneath his jacket as the door closes behind him. 

He should wait until later tonight to look it over so he can have time to invest in learning the characters and plot. It’s a thick pamphlet— too many pages to read in the few moments it would take to wash his hands. He wouldn’t put it past Aunt Kari to come upstairs and catch him with this… this  _ thing  _ he can’t ever tell them about. Not if it means they’ll tell his parents; not if it means it’ll be torn from his hands before he has a chance to really feel it.

Still, he pads across the room and plops down on the bed, glancing at the front page.

_ ACT I: THE NURSERY— The night nursery of the Darling family, which is the scene of our opening Act, is at the top of a rather depressed street in Bloomsbury. We have a right to place it where we will, and the reason Bloomsbury is chosen is that Mr. Roget once lived there. So did we in days when his Thesaurus was our only companion in London; and we whom he has helped to wend our way through life have always wanted to pay him a little compliment. The Darlings therefore lived in Bloomsbury… _

The first few pages are nothing more than an introduction, nothing more than setting and scenery. Patrick skims through it with a quick glance at each word, nodding along with the memory of the book he’d read in high school— as well as all the movie adaptations he’s seen. 

It seems fun. Patrick Stump, the Lost Boy for one night only— how wonderful will that be? 

It seems harmless; it seems worth doing.

It seems to change with the arrival of Peter Pan. 

Nothing sticks out to Patrick— nothing but the inkling that something is off. Lines feel switched or added in, new scenes read across the page like a layer of paint contrasting against an original shade. Perhaps his memory is merely tricking him. Maybe he’s not as well-versed in his literature as he thought.

Wendy and Peter exchange their thimbles and acorns. They learn to fly and travel to Neverland. 

Everything is normal but…

Wendy is the one meant to sing about what house she wishes— wasn’t she? Isn’t Wendy supposed to decide a woodland house, to create a few verses to enchant the Lost Boys? Didn’t Peter want to build the house for Wendy?

_ PETER: Oh, John, if you could sing the kind of house you would like to have. (It is as if he had heard him.)  _

_ JOHN (without opening his eyes): I wish I had a woodland house/ The littlest ever seen/ With funny little red wall/ And roof of mossy green. _

Heat fades into Patrick’s cheeks. This is… This is  _ wrong _ . 

But, still, he turns the page and continues to read. There’s always the chance he’s misremembering the book, after all. Or it’s a typo or a director’s decision to give greater emphasis to John and Peter’s friendship.

Friendship.

Yes, of course. That has to be it. Patrick shakes his head at his own silliness, swallowing down the upset nerves coiling in his gut.

To prove it to himself, he flips through the pages, looking for one word only—  _ kiss. _

_ WENDY: I think it's perfectly sweet of you, and I shall get up again. (They sit together on the side of the bed.) I shall give you a kiss if you like.  _

_ PETER: Thank you. (He holds out his hand.) _

_ WENDY (aghast): Don't you know what a kiss is?  _

_ PETER: I shall know when you give it to me. (Not to hurt his feelings she gives him her thimble.) Now shall I give you a kiss? _

Perfect. Patrick nods to himself, though a corner of his mind bitterly wonders who the Wendy actress is. Such thoughts pause, though, when he turns towards a few pages in the middle and catches sight of his own character’s name— John.

John, and the word  _ kiss _ .

_ JOHN: Peter, you can give me a kiss.  _

_ PETER (confused): So when Wendy gave me her kiss, it meant she loves me. (He offers him the thimble.)  _

_ JOHN (shocked): Oh dear, I didn't mean a kiss, Peter. I meant a thimble.  _

_ PETER (only half placated): What is that?  _

_ JOHN: It is a sign that you love someone and I meant when I said I could love you. Let me show you— it is like this (He leans forward to give a demonstration, but something prevents the meeting of their faces.)  _

_ PETER (satisfied): Then I will give you a thimble. And I will wait for the moment that love can be true _

Patrick shuts the script in a manner that nearly tears it, reeling back from the pages. That’s not right, that’s so far from right and, worse, his heart is pounding and his cheeks are burning and he can’t stop thinking about—

Without further hesitation, without further reading, Patrick scrambles for his phone. He tries and fails to calm his breaths, each one shuddering with uneven, panicked emotions.

He’s barely aware as he glances at the cursed papers, taking in the numbers and punching them into the phone. He needs answers and he needs explanations and, though he can hear Aunt Kari calling him to dinner, he needs them  _ now _ .

_ “Tell me what Joe did to the script _ .” 

He sends the message to Andy with shaking hands, ignoring Pete’s number staring back up at him when the script slips waay to the floor. He shuts his eyes, swallowing down no small amount of fear. He should quit the play the second Andy responds, should explain that this isn’t what he thought he was signing up for. He thought it would be a fun summer secret, not some preposterous scandal.

Andy replies before the minute is through, though it feels like centuries to Patrick.

_ “Ah. Well. Every other person in this town is a homophobic bastard. Joe and ‘Peter’ agreed to take a stand against it.” _

A second text comes in a moment later, the notification causing Patrick to jump.

_ “Basically, we’re tricking everyone into seeing a gay play. _ ”

Hysterical, Patrick laughs to himself.

It’s almost noble.

As he places his phone beside him and drops his head into his hands, Pete’s words play over in his head. The request— no, the  _ demand _ — for Patrick to play John. His John. Peter’s John.

The words are stuck on repeat, mocking and taunting and twisting.

Patrick can’t help but feel he’s been tricked, too. 

<><><> <><><> <><><>

A week later, a text announcing the first rehearsal arrives.

Patrick knows he should back out before he has a chance to interact. He should give up and return the script with an excuse on his tongue and an apologetic smile on his lips. He should stick to working with Aunt Kari— an idea he’s entertained for longer than he cares to admit.

By the time rehearsals roll around, Patrick should be anywhere other than the theater.

But here he is with sweaty palms and furrowed brows, a rolled-up script held tightly to his chest. A bead of sweat rolls down his cheek, exhaustion tainting the strict set of his mouth. He supposes he can blame the tiredness on the work he’d done before running to the theater— shaken awake a few measly hours after dawn, sent to unroll carpets from an old church floor and pry nails free from nailed down furniture— but it’d be too easy a lie to see through.

He hadn’t told Aunt Kari where he’d been going when he left, wandering away from the church with a shaky smile. He expected her to stop him and wasn’t quite sure if he’d be upset if she did. His mother would have pulled him back without hesitation, listing off chores and books to read. His father would have entered interrogation mode until Patrick had no choice but to admit his plans. Surely, Aunt Kari would be the same?

“It’s good for you to have some fun,” she had said, smiling. “Go on out, then. Make some friends. It is summer, after all.”

Summer. Patrick’s last summer. 

The phrase repeats in his mind. One more summer; one more season meant to be  _ his _ .

When he walks through the doors of the theater, a few minutes late and entirely alone, it’s with a boldness he clings to with every fiber of his being. 

A boldness which, like most good things in his life, flees from him the second he hears the voices of other people emanating from another room.

A stranger’s voice, aghast and feigning fear. “If you are Hook, tell me, who am I?”

“A codfish, only a codfish.” Peter’s line; Pete’s voice. Small laughter and Pete’s joining chuckle— out of character but warm and more than enough to draw Patrick into the main theater. 

“A codfish?” The Hook character cries out at the same time Patrick enters, saving him from the terror of a noticed late arrival. Again, the cast laughs and a small smile pulls at Patrick’s lips.

The group of actors and actresses huddle together amongst the front row seats, some balanced on the back of chairs in a manner that has to be against the building’s policies. Scripts hang in their hands and smiles rest on their faces, the group trading lines back and forth as Joe stands by the stage, taking notes with a perpetually raised eyebrow. 

Pete remains on the edge of the circle, grinning as he readjusts onto the back of a chair, feet propped on the arms of the seat before him. Clad in a tight green t-shirt and a cocky smirk, he’s a perfect image for the character he’s meant to portray.

“Oh, Patrick,” Joe says, interrupting Smee’s stammering lines. “You’re late.”

“Y-Yeah,” Patrick replies, making his way to the group. “Sorry, it won’t— It won’t happen again.”

Joe waves him off. “Nah, it’s fine. We’re just doing a dry reading right now, getting a feel for the parts. They’re finishing up the last scene of act three. You think you can jump in?”

_ No _

“Yes.” Patrick nods frantically, the action only stilling once Joe’s pointed towards the last empty space remaining.

Space which, as Patrick’s luck would have it, is right next to Pete.

“We’re on page thirty-six now. Your part comes in two pages so be ready,” Pete says once Patrick’s settled beside him, standing and shifting awkwardly. Again, Patrick nods and begins to search for the scene as Pete addresses the rest of the group. “So, where were we? Were you talking, Gee?”

“Yeah, we were at my codfish part,” another actor says, a redhead with a unique twist in his lips when he speaks. He curls one finger into the shape of a hook. “Take it from the top, or—”

“Just say your last line again,” Pete interrupts, a common occurrence if the other boy’s affectionate eye roll is anything to go off of. “I think I’ll be good.”

“Of course you will be,” Gee says before clearing his throat and projecting into a dramatic tone. “A codfish?”

And, just like that, they’re all swept away into their lines and parts, Patrick left to stare at his upcoming scene. 

Peter and John. Patrick’s heart picks up its beat, pounding harder with each word he reads.

_ JOHN: I won't go without you. Let us draw lots for who is to stay behind.  _

_ PETER: And abandon a friend? Never! _

It’s a simple scene, a friendly scene of the two on Skull Island as the waters rise. Peter’s been wounded by Hook— or so he believes— and John’s too terrified to fly on his own. The two have only one way to escape the fate of drowning, arguing back and forth over who deserves to live more.

It’s not a scene from the original novel or play. And it’s not something Patrick can imagine saying.

Peter saves John’s life by tying him to a kite and staying behind. A line, one line, insinuates something more than mere friendship—  _ JOHN holds out his mouth to PETER, but PETER knows they cannot do that—  _ and it’s enough to drown out all else. 

Why? Why him? Why the part of John?

All of it leads up to the pulsing debate in his brain, the burning question of why Pete ever decided Patrick should play the John to his Peter in this skewed and distorted play. 

The scene nears Patrick’s lines and his stomach suddenly feels like a deep, cavernous hole. Gaping and hollow, trying his best to keep from keeling over and being sick on the spot.

“They must be swimming home … or flying!” The Wendy of the group exclaims, a smiling girl with a head of choppy orange hair. She finishes her line with a laugh, eyes falling down to read the narration. It’s nothing more than stage directions, explaining Peter and John escaping from Captain Hook by seeking refuge on a nearby rock. 

It’s nothing to feel sick over but Patrick’s stomach flips all the same.

“Peter,” he reads, encouraged by Joe’s raised eyebrow. The silence around his part no longer feels natural, not as easy as the others had held. His face burns and he knows he doesn’t belong in this part, doesn’t belong in this group. Still, he reads on. “Where are we, Peter?”

The Peter beside him— the Pete he’s befriended— makes a show of looking around the theater before glancing back down at his script.

“We are on the rock but it’s getting smaller. Soon the water will be over it. Listen!” 

The words and lines mean nothing and Patrick focuses on the fact that this is just a rehearsal. Not a flirtation or group of friends. Just a rehearsal for a play he mistakenly joined.

“We must go.”

“Yes.”

“Shall we swim or fly?” Patrick asks. Pete sighs heavily, papers flapping as he shrugs.

“John.” He says the name with a familiarity Patrick’s sure is meant for Wendy. “Do you think you could swim or fly to the island without me?”

Patrick gulps, taking one second to imagine the scene, to put himself in the character’s place.

Just as quickly, he takes himself out.

“You know I couldn’t, Peter. I am just a beginner,” he says, taking a breath to prepare for the next part.

“Cut!” 

Patrick chokes on his own inhale with a sound that’s almost a gasp as Joe shouts. Luckily, going from Pete’s near topple over the chair, Patrick’s not the only one stunned by it.

“Wh— What the hell?” Pete demands, righting himself with a glare Joe returns. Joe points and, before the action’s fully through, Patrick knows it’s aimed for him.

“Patrick,” Joe says, confirming his fears and suspicions. He shrinks under Joe’s narrow-eyed gaze, prepared for a scolding. “You aren’t in character.”

“I… I’m not?” Patrick tries, grip tightening on the papers. If he had ever hoped they’d go easy on him for being new, he was wrong. 

“Nope,” Joe says. “John and Peter are supposed to be the Wendy and Peter, y’know? We need tension and chemistry not… Not whatever it is you’re doing. Can’t you even pretend to like Peter?”

Patrick’s brain, stupid and defensive, jumps ahead without consultation. “Not really.”

Look. The thing is, Patrick had felt like everyone else might have been kind. He’d hoped, at least, that his fellow actors and actresses would be open to newcomers. 

Instead, all hopes are dashed when the room erupts in giggles and jeers at his and Pete’s expense. As the group teases Pete about the supposed rejection, Patrick tries not to feel guilty about it. It  _ is  _ Pete’s fault for dragging him into this, after all.

“Oh my god,” Joe says, face-palming as if to hide from the chatter. “Okay, fair enough because… same—” 

“Hey!” Pete’s face is split into a grin despite his offended tone and he tosses his script at Joe’s feet. Joe ignores it completely.

“But we do need you two to at least seem to get along.” At this, Joe peeks out from behind his fingers, eyes moving to Pete. “Any ideas on how to win him over?”

Pete’s grin sharpens into something new and Patrick decides then and there that he doesn’t trust it for a second.

“Oh, I know,” Pete says, a tone just like that of a Lost Boy. “We can do the kiss scene.”

“What? No!” Patrick’s spluttering is lost in the raucous laughter that follows.

“Yes,  _ please _ ,” Captain Hook says, accompanied by Wendy’s laughter and a handful of encouragement from the Lost Boys. 

“No, thank you,” Patrick says, again ignored as Pete leans towards him.

“We can just skip straight to the kiss,” Pete says, winking. “That’ll create some tension, right?”

This time, Patrick’s out of words and only his mind is screaming  _ NO! _

Well,  _ no,  _ and a with a small traitorous cry of  _ maybe. _

Pete’s bent towards him now, lips pursed in a joking manner but too close to be a prank. 

Unless it is a prank. A horrible awful prank meant to out Patrick and embarrass him and snitch to his parents when it’s all done and—

Oh god, Pete’s so close and his eyes are so lovely when they’re twinkling like that and he’s not pulling back, he’s not even thinking of it, he’s—

Patrick’s hands meet Pete’s shoulders with a steady force, shoving the boy backward off the seat. Pete hits the ground with a pained cry but Patrick’s the one shaking and trembling as he pushes himself to his feet. He’s the one with burning cheeks and breaths that refuse to completely fill his lungs. He’s the one with every wish to disappear.

This isn’t how the day was supposed to go; this isn’t how any of this was supposed to go. Had he really waltzed in here with fantasies of a sublime summer memory, something to keep close to his chest when his parents packed him off to a college of their choosing? Had he really expected to do anything other than make a fool of himself? 

The others around him laugh. Even Pete is grinning, though he rubs the back of his neck and raises his eyebrows when Patrick looks his way. There’s something in the curve of his lips, something whispering of compunctions and guilt and Patrick doesn’t know which of them is drowning in it.

Impossibly, the laughter grows louder— or are they all just closing in? Patrick’s throat fails to work, words caught halfway between his mouth and lungs. 

“Sorry,” he says, coughing out the last of his oxygen in a whisper no one should be able to hear over the horrible teasing— is it at Pete’s expense or his own? Patrick doesn’t want to know; he’s certain there’s no world where the answer is a kind one. “I’m really sorry.”

“Patrick?” Pete stands and takes a step closer, his smile twitching like a broken stage light. A glitch in his character’s mask, cockiness blending with concern. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s…” Is anyone paying attention to this exchange? Giggles and jokes still litter the air but none stick long enough for Patrick to feel safe in their sound— not that there’s ever any true comfort in the cruel cacophony of jeers. Pete’s smile fades completely in the time it takes for Patrick to blink. “I’m  _ sorry _ .”

Laughter is fading out. Pete is looking at him with a frown that’s too out of place on a face meant for smiles and smirks. Patrick’s head is spinning with apologies and excuses. 

But what is there to explain? His crippling self-deprecation? His lack of experience in any of this— kisses and acting and fun? Or, he thinks as he steps away from Pete’s nearing form, what about the bundle of nerves that sparked in his stomach when Pete was leaning in close? Is he supposed to explain that? 

No. There’s nothing to say; there’s only one thing to do.

“Patrick?” Pete tries again.

Patrick turns and sprints for the door.

“Patrick!”

The sound of his name— too comfortable in the mouth of someone whose name he doesn’t even know— doesn’t fade from his ears until he’s outside the theater, outside the entire building. Each door slams shut with a condemning  _ boom _ , a more dramatic version of an alarm set to wake him from silly fantastical dreams like this. 

Patrick’s never been one for friends or adventures— his parents made sure of that. Focus on school and the future, they said, before turning towards the fickleness of friends. And that’s not even touching their turned up noses and narrowed eyes whenever he showed an ounce of interest in a boy for too long.

“Try liking a girl,” his father had said once while Patrick had been watching the boys at the neighborhood pool. “Or, at least, go home and save yourself the trouble of rumors.”

Patrick’s hands form fists and he stops running, chest heaving as he collapses on the corner of the sidewalk, exhaustion and stress weighing him down. He’d message his father now if he thought he’d respond. He’d beg to be taken back home— away from this foolishness, this waste of a summer, this make-believe of being one of the normal kids for once. He’d pretend the drive back would be an escape if it meant he was never so stupid again. School and grades— he can do that. But this? Cute boys leaning towards him with smiles and inviting eyes? Scripts of romance where he’s one of the leads? It’s so far from him that he barely feels like the Patrick he was raised to be.

His bottom lip trembles for a moment but he bites down hard before any more embarrassments can come to be. Within a second, he has his phone in his hand, dialing Aunt Kari’s number. No one’s come looking for him yet— something that, though they’re all strangers, hurts him worse than it should. Still, he wants to be gone in case any of them change their minds.

Aunt Kari picks up on the first ring, startling Patrick away from his planned speech of needing to be back home now. 

“Tricky!” She says. “I was just about to text you, honey. I’m out picking up some sweets at the store. Do you have a favorite ice cream?”

“A… A favorite…” Patrick trails off, trying to remember the last time he had ice cream. His graduation party, maybe? “Um, vanilla, I guess.” It’s the most popular with his mother and father, anyway. Aunt Kari laughs teasingly but says nothing against the choice, something Patrick’s grateful for.

“Well, fair enough, I suppose, knowing your mother,” she says. “Now, what did you call for, sweetie?”

Patrick swallows, looking down at his shoes and kicking at some stray pebbles. “I, um, I was wondering if you’d be able to pick me up. It’s hot out and I want to leave pretty quickly so walking didn’t seem like a good idea. And only if it’s okay with you, though. I don’t want you to go out of your way for me or anything.” He tugs a bit at the string of his hoodie, heart sinking when Aunt Kari takes her time responding.

“Oh, it’s never a bother but are you sure?” She asks, sounding truly perturbed. “Did something happen?”

“No, it’s just… Er, well, you see…” He blushes, curling in on himself with slumped shoulders and a deep frown. “I met up with some kids I thought were cool but, I guess, I just don’t fit in with them. It’s… It’s no one’s fault but… I’d just feel better if I were back at the house.”

Aunt Kari’s silent for another moment before she scoffs.

“No.”

Patrick blinks, reeling back from the suddenly harsh tone. “No?”

“No,” Aunt Kari reaffirms, strongly enough that Patrick can practically feel the sharp nod through the phone. “You’re going to go right back to those kids and try again. I don’t know what happened, Tricky, but I’m willing to bet you gave up far too quickly. There’s no way anyone out there doesn’t like you, this group included.” 

Patrick frowns, his grip on the phone tightening. 

“Come on,” he says, hating how whiny he sounds. “You just have to say that because you’re family.”

“I don’t have to say anything I don’t want to,” Aunt Kari says. “And I’m only speaking the truth. You’re a special person, Patrick, and everyone who’s met you knows it. Trust me, those kids know it, too. You just have to give them a chance to get used to the brilliance.”

It’s complete feel-better family crap. It’s the same bullshit pulled on preschoolers on their first day of school or the script older siblings use when the younger kids are going through a bad breakup. Patrick knows that Aunt Kari’s biased and that he shouldn’t take her seriously— his mother always did warn him about Aunt Kari’s emotional mumbo-jumbo. Besides, the last thing he believes is that he’s anything “special” or “brilliant” and no amount of doting aunt cliches are going to change that.

Still, he does smile himself smiling and blushing. His chest warms and, for a second, he can breathe as if there were never any issues.

“Don’t expect me to believe any of it,” he mutters, half because he feels he has to. Aunt Kari clucks her tongue.

“Well, good thing I believe it enough for the both of us,” she says, adding more cliches to her repertoire. “Now, promise me you’ll give it another shot?”

Patrick hesitates, rubbing his lips together and feeling sick at the mere thought of walking back into the theater. Still…

“Promise,” he says, hating himself as the word leaves his lips. “Thanks, Aunt K.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she says. “I’ll see you for dinner?”

“Yeah.”

Aunt Kari mutters a few more encouragements and then hangs up.

The silence aims to kill Patrick but he breaks it before it has the chance, sighing as he stands.

“This is the worst idea,” he says, walking towards the door. He drags his feet, stomach turning. He won’t be surprised if he throws up before fully making it back to the theater. “This is the stupidest thing ever.”

Still, he opens the doors and walks back in. Still, he barely shakes as he hurries towards the main theater.

Inside, he doesn’t know what he expects— remains of laughter or angry cast members— but it’s not the complete absence of the group. No one’s to be seen and everything’s back in its place, not even a script left lying around but for the one Patrick had dropped.

It makes Patrick feel even sicker than before. 

“Okay,” he says quietly, backing out of the room. “Clearly, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

“Not really. Just your common sense.” 

Patrick does  _ not  _ screech at the voice, though he does jump and spin with a high-pitched curse.

Joe raises an eyebrow. It takes longer than it should for Patrick to decide he shouldn’t hit him.

“Yeah, sorry,” Patrick says instead, relaxing just the tiniest bit. “It happens when weird things happen.”

Joe nods solemnly. “Weird things like Peter trying to kiss you. Totally understand, dude. I think we all do.”

Again, nerves burn in Patrick’s stomach and he’s not entirely sure if they’re good or bad. 

“Right,” he says, drawing out the word. “Speaking of which, um, is he around? I feel like I should apologize for, like, pushing him. Out of his chair. In front of everyone.”

Joe’s lips twitch but, blessedly, he doesn’t laugh. “Yeah, alright. Well, don’t feel too bad about it but I think he’s backstage. You caused a bit of a scene— no theater puns intended— so I sent everyone on a break. I think he’s freaking out? I don’t know, he was convinced you were quitting the show.” 

Patrick winces, face scrunched up in apology. “Oh, uh, I’m sorry about that. I’m not quitting, by the way. I just panicked.”

“Fair enough.” Joe laughs. “Look, I’m gonna get the others started on another scene if you wanna go find our Peter Pan. Drag him out to us or something. Whatever it takes to get him to rejoin the group.”

Patrick nods, though he’s amazed he’s able to move at all. The thought of confronting Pete after such an embarrassing moment, of trying to apologize for something that shouldn’t have happened, freezes his thoughts. 

“Sure,” he’s able to say. “I’ll, um, be right back, then.”

He makes his way towards the stage but Joe grabs his arm, stopping him with a stern look.

“Hey, you don’t have to play John if you don’t want to,” he says. “I know that P-  _ Peter _ can be a bit pushy but if you don’t wanna play the love interest, no one will blame you. Shit, we can always use some help with the set if it’s stage fright you have.”

Patrick considers the offer. It’s a kind suggestion and an easy way out; play his cards right and he could probably keep Pete from finding out he quit because of the relationship. Kissing on a stage? Playing the Wendy, for all intents and purposes, to Pete’s Peter Pan? It’s certainly not something Patrick ever thought he was signing up for.

Still

_ Give them a chance to get used to the brilliance _

It’s a stupid thing to be comforted by, a lie from a family member, but it has Patrick shrugging Joe’s offer away all the same. 

“I appreciate it,” he says, “but I’ll stick around if you don’t mind. I’d hate to ditch it over something as stupid as a kiss. Besides, Pete seems nice and I don’t really think he meant any harm before. I freaked out, that’s all.”

Joe’s eyes gleam like there’s something more to be said; even his eyebrows furrow together at Patrick’s words. He keeps silent, settling on an easy shrug and smile.

“Let him know we still need him for rehearsal, then,” he says, at last. “And, if you mean all that, then I expect to see you there, too. You really will make a great John.”

The words are simple and should be meaningless but, just like Aunt Kari’s, they bring a warmth to Patrick’s chest, resting kindly among his ribs and heart. He smiles at Joe, fighting to keep the grin from growing too wide, and then continues his search for Pete.

His feet and instincts lead him down the empty theater first, reignited nerves keeping him at an exquisitely slow pace. He’s alone once more and it’s nothing new, not really— certainly not anything he’s a stranger to. But there’s something eerie about a room losing its life in such a short amount of time; it’s even worse when he knows it’s his fault.

Butterflies with metal edges flutter through his stomach. He swallows down fears the way he should have earlier, the way he should have when Pete was leaning forward and there was no clear reason to be afraid. Patrick’s mind skips on that memory— a record distorting something meant to be pretty or good. He knows he panicked and he knows he shoved Pete away with far too much force but everything before that is a blur. Worse than a blur, it’s a scratch through his mind, a millisecond containing nothing more than brown eyes and overly pursed lips.

Patrick’s face grows hot at the almost memory, though he fights to keep his feelings neutral. Really, there’s no hiding from the fact that his co-star— love interest? Partner?— is an attractive boy but the sudden twisting in his guts is getting ridiculous and the mere thought of the…  _ the scene  _ shouldn’t do more than bring a blush to face. 

Still, Patrick sighs and wonders what might have happened if he hadn’t shoved him away.

**Beep**

With the harsh electronic tone of a cell phone left on the stage, Patrick’s thoughts rip away and he jumps, startled once more. 

It doesn’t matter, he reasons. They were stupid thoughts, anyway.

No one answers the phone, not even when it beeps again, and he takes it upon himself to shift his focus on the device. The screen’s still lit up by the time he gets there— those ever-present nerves reminding him of privacy and respect— but he’s only planning on glancing, hopeful that it’ll give him a clue to Pete’s location. 

Instead, he’s greeted by a picture of Peter Pan himself.

Not  _ Pete _ , the actor Patrick barely knows, but a silhouette of the animated character released some time in Patrick’s youth. It’s a dramatic piece of art displayed on the phone, shadows lit only by a small speck he assumes to be a pixie. Pan’s hat gives away the character, sat cockily upon the character’s head in a manner that’s revealing of the smirk he must be wearing. Gold— pixie dust or, perhaps, more dramatics— dances along the bottom of the screen, beneath the notifications, in the shape of one of the film’s more iconic quotes.

_ All it takes is faith and trust… _

Patrick’s certain there’s a magical ending to the line, something about pixie dust and flying, but the obvious lack only makes the image more dramatic. Something Patrick presumes the owner wanted.

And, if he presumes correctly, Pete is exactly the kind of person to want that.

Without hesitation and without much thought, Patrick reaches for the phone as the screen begins to dim. The notification remains unread, some missed message from a contact with a silly nickname, but Patrick’s not interested in that. All he knows is that this must be Pete’s phone and, maybe, that can grant him Pete’s location. And, if he’s lucky, maybe… 

It can give him Pete’s name.

Curiosity gnaws at his thoughts. There’s nothing in a name but a sound, a word to call someone who was once a stranger. And isn’t that the point? To make the step from stranger to acquaintance to friend? 

There’s nothing in a name but trust, as dramatic as that sounds. 

Patrick ignores his theatrics, considering the mess he’s fallen into.

Pete’s phone is heavy in his hand and he knows it’s his own imagination, guilt weighing down the device as he bites his lip and wonders what someone like Pete would choose for a password. When he slides to the passcode screen, he’s greeted with numbers— a code easier to solve than a pattern or thumbprint. His heart pounds and his palms sweat. He swears the air grows thicker. 

73837 for Peter. 726 for Pan. 

Patrick’s heart rate doubles when both fail.

Two codes. He’d entered two codes and he’s already out of ideas. Though, can he really be blamed for the obvious guesses? Pete’s a boy obsessed with hiding his name and playing his part. Wouldn’t it make sense to use his own character?

Perhaps that’s too obvious, though. The increased mystery only convinces Patrick to try harder. It’s not a deterrence or sign from the universe to stop; it’s a challenge and he’s never been one to turn down a dare.

7383 because his nickname is Pete— no. 

93639 because Peter Pan loves Wendy— no.

4665 because Peter Pan hates Hook — no.

3825 because Patrick’s losing his fucking mind— still no.

He pauses and takes a breath— a quick one, convinced he can figure this out and, as a result, figure out the boy who’s so rudely and so easily captured his attention.

Frustrated and anxious, he tries again.

564— 

“Patrick?” 

The phone falls from his hand and back onto the stage with a condemning  _ thud,  _ something Patrick should have planned for when propping himself over the edge of it. He winces, biting back a curse, and pushes away from the phone, eyes wide when he spins around to face the only person fate would allow him to see in this exact moment.

“Hey, Pete,” he says, smiling as if he hadn’t been trying to break into his phone. “Your… Is that your phone? I was looking for you but then this started going off so I thought- I- I had- I wanted to bring it to you. It’s, um, I didn’t look, I just. Hm.” Patrick cuts off, teeth clicking against each other as he shuts his mouth.

Pete doesn’t respond, walking towards Patrick with a small frown on his face. Others file in behind him, taking their positions from the last attempt at rehearsal. The accompanying noise does nothing to drown out the sound of Patrick’s heartbeat thrumming through his ears.

Finally, Pete comes to a stop beside him, taking the phone with a soft sigh.

“Thanks,” he says, pocketing it without glancing at the notifications. “Hey, can I… I know they’re doing another read through right now but, like, would it be okay if we just talked for a bit?”

Patrick blinks, resisting the urge to run away once more. “Sure. Yeah, that’s… that’d be fine.”

“Cool.” Pete smiles. Patrick doesn’t know whether it’s meant to ease or exaggerate his nerves and, somehow, it does a strange mix of both. “Backstage, then? I don’t wanna distract them.”

All it takes is a nod from Patrick before Pete’s scurrying up the stage steps and behind the curtains, as nimble as the character he claims to be. Patrick pauses, wide-eyed, and then follows, tripping up the steps and shoving aside curtains too heavy for their own good.

“Pete?” He calls into the dim lighting. “Pete, I thought we were gonna talk. I was gonna… I wanted to say sorry for—”

Warms palms slap over Patrick’s mouth and he stumbles back, hitting the wall and staring into the bright eyes of Peter Pan.

“Don’t you dare apologize. It’s all my fault and I’m really sorry and I shouldn’t have messed with you like that especially since we don’t know each other, like, at all,” Pete rambles in a tone dripping with anxiety. “I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable and I don’t want you to quit the show. I just wanted to make you feel like part of the group, you know? We all mess around like that and I should have thought better but don’t quit, please.”

Pete continues to rant in an overly apologetic tone. Patrick tries to nod along but there’s something distracting about Pete’s hands pressed against his lips; there’s something overwhelming about the scent of hot skin and the sight of swirling brown eyes so close to his face.

Somewhere along the line— between staring back at Pete’s shadow-kissed face and listening to his hushed whispers of words— Patrick realizes he should reassure him. He takes a deep breath, guiltily savoring the press of Pete’s palms against his mouth, and swats his hands away.

“It’s fine,” he laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses to fit comfortably back on his nose. “Really, I’m not… I’m not gonna quit.” 

Pete’s hands, hovering in the air, pause their confused fluttering as he pulls back to glance over Patrick. He blinks— once, twice— and then smiles slightly. “Really?”

Patrick struggles to meet his gaze and shrugs. “Yeah, I wouldn’t quit over something like that. It wasn’t all your fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have pushed you and I’m sorry that I did.” He looks at anything but Pete, choosing the back of the curtains, but he can still see him shaking his head from the corner of his eye.

“Dude, I told you not to apologize,” he says. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone wants a Pete W— Peter Pan kiss forced on them.”

“Well, I wouldn't call it a forced kiss if it’s in the script. It’s just…” Patrick stops, rubbing his lips and ducking his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “I haven’t, um, done that before? The kissing thing, that is. I mean, I- I had one in kindergarten but I don’t think that counts so, like, it’s nothing you did. I’m just stupidly inexperienced.” 

Pete stares, which less of a reaction than Patrick expected. He wouldn’t blame Pete for laughing or teasing— god knows he deserves it for shoving him off his seat— but the stunned silence is worse than both combined.

Patrick chuckles, a mix of beating Pete to it and self-defense. “Say something?”

Pete steps back. His forehead crinkles and his eyebrows furrow together.

At last, he chokes out a few words.

“You?” He asks. “Really?”

“Really,” Patrick says, his voice unsure. Pete’s stare— through Peter Pan magic, Patrick’s sure— grows heavier than before.

“You,” he repeats, less of a question and more of a clarification. “No one’s kissed  _ you _ .”

“Um.” Patrick looks back to Pete with a nervous gulp. “Yeah?”

“Okay, then,” Pete says, sounding as if Patrick’s betrayed him somehow. But then he cracks a smile and Patrick nearly feels he can breathe again— nearly. “Well, I guess that changes everything. I thought I tricked Joe into letting me kiss a cute boy practically every day for rehearsal but…” Pete trails off, his smile softening. “Do you wanna, like, go hang out somewhere?”

It’s a quick shift from his previous tone and piecing the words together is harder than it should be. Patrick gapes at Pete— a fish out of water, a lost boy out of Neverland— and then finally shakes his head.

“No, sorry,” he says, the words slipping out with wonderfully feigned ease. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind but we need to finish the rehearsal. It’s… It wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.”

As if cracking open a door, Patrick’s words are followed by the faint laughter of the cast outside the curtains, taking turns with their lines and jokes. Pete tilts his head to the side at the sound, sighing in response.

“Not the fun choice but I can respect it,” he says. “Besides, we do need our John.”

Patrick laughs, the tense atmosphere from before fading away with the sound. “Not as much as we need our Peter.”

Pete’s responding chuckle is light— a fairy, perhaps, or a pixie sound— and he hides his beaming grin by ducking his head.

“Fair enough,” he says, nodding back towards the front of the stage. “Well, then, best head back. I need to introduce you to everyone else properly, anyway.”

Patrick smiles and, this time, it’s easy to keep up with Pete as he races off the stage. For a moment, all fear and panic slop away— lost in the sound of Patrick calling after Peter Pan.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

A comfortable weight tugs on Patrick’s limbs and rests against his throat as he and Pete make their way out of the theater. The rehearsal lasted longer than it was meant to— something Patrick’s more than willing to take the blame for— and it shows in the hoarseness of both boys’ voices, tired from the emotions forced into each word as they acted. No one had brought up the kissing scene, though— thank god— but they had all danced around it with raised eyebrows and pink cheeks, teasing words kept behind teeth but seen in the twist of lips when Pete suggested they skip it. Patrick had known the questions everyone else— a mismatched group of kids from around the nearby neighborhoods— would have but he shared his grateful smile with Pete alone, an action that was more than worth it when Pete bumped his shoulder with a playful laugh.

The time, though extended and more than a bit dragged out, had been… nice. Fun, even. Given the chance, he might say perfect.

Even now, brushing shoulders with Pete and laughing with him over something as stupid as a cast member’s mistake, his insides are warm with the feeling— the knowledge— that this wasn’t a mistake. Or, he hopes it isn’t.

They talk about everything and nothing as they walk— headed nowhere and everywhere, Pete says when Patrick tries to ask where the sidewalk leads. 

“Everywhere and nowhere,” he says with a smile and shrug. “I’ve never reached the end of it, honestly, but isn’t that half the fun?”

Patrick can’t help his smile, even if he does shake his head and shove Pete a bit. He’s perfect for his character— imaginative, playful, and too witty for his own good.

Patrick prays he can be as good a match for his own part in the play.

Words shift between them like weather, and topics never last for long. One second, Pete’s discussing the sun and then Patrick’s joking about the odd old-person smell in the back of the theater. Patrick mentions how horrid it is to be the youngest child and Pete responds with a quote from some 80’s movie he didn’t expect Patrick to have seen. 

Still, it’s all more natural than it has any right to be.

“So, you have to share,” Pete says once they reach the topic of the play itself. “No one just randomly decides to join a play— and definitely not a stupid summer one put on by some hopeful idiots. There’s gotta be an inciting incident or something, right? What’s the story? Lost love? A call from destiny? Fulfilling the dying wish of some old man you used to visit every year?”

“What?” Patrick asks, barely biting back a burst of laughter. “Dude, no! Can’t someone just join a play for the fun of it?”

“Oh, no. Impossible,” Pete says. “Take me, for instance. I’ve always loved acting but it’s not like I was born ready to step on stage. It’s… It’s more the jumping into someone else’s head for a bit, you know? Just for a few hours, I don’t have to be P- I don’t have to be myself. I can show off different sides that no one else knew I had or, like, learn things about my own psyche that I’ve never realized before.” He pauses, wrinkling his nose and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Then again, everyone says I’m total shit at it so what do I know?”

“I thought you were good,” Patrick says, maybe a bit too quickly. “From what I’ve seen, at least. You’re… You seem comfortable in the role you have. It shows.”

Pete smiles and Patrick takes a whole five seconds to convince himself his stomach doesn’t flip at the sight. 

“ —so playing Peter Pan himself is kinda a dream come true,” Pete’s saying when Patrick pulls himself out of his own mind. “The character… I’ve related to him a lot over the years, as stupid as that sounds.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid.” Patrick shrugs, hoping it doesn’t show that he stopped paying attention to the opening part. “I mean, I still think I’ll grow up to be Ziggy Stardust so I can’t really judge.”

“Hey, you never know,” Pete says with a laugh, turning towards Patrick and walking backward in front of him. He holds out his hands, pointing out a tattoo on his right middle finger— a star placed between a ‘2’ and an ‘R’. “I actually got this based on Peter Pan a bit ago. The quote, you know. Second star to the right. There are a ton of iconic quotes in the play and movie and book and all that but… that one really stuck with me.” 

Patrick hums, nodding and doing his best not to trip as Pete slows down. 

“That’s cool,” he says truthfully, even if he does think it’s a little melodramatic— in the nicest way, of course. “I could never get a tattoo. Wouldn’t fit me, I think.”

“Well, you don’t know until you try,” Pete says with a wink, skipping back to his position at Patrick’s side. “Just like joining a play. A story you have yet to tell me about, in case you thought I’d forget.”

“Oh, god,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “It really isn’t anything special. Really. It’s just… My parents, I guess? They’re great and I love them, of course, but they’ve always been controlling. Do this without complaining; do that without asking. I swear, they’ve had my whole life planned from the moment I was old enough to walk. This was something they couldn’t control. If I have to go off to whatever college they chose this fall… If I have to put up with their plans for my life, I want to have something to look back on and know was  _ my  _ idea. Mine, and no one else’s.” He laughs to himself, shaking his head to hide the growing tremor in his hands and voice. “So it’s a giant ‘fuck you’ to my parents if you want the simplified version.”

Pete misses a step as they walk; his sudden frown deepens with each breath the two take. Patrick may not have known him for long— may not know him at all— but his silence is worrying. Pete seems to be the kind of boy to talk for hours at a time, to always have something on his mind aching to escape through his words. This quiet… It causes Patrick’s guts to twist in an uncomfortable way.

“Did they ever stop you from doing anything else?” Pete asks, furrowing his eyebrows at the ground. “Your parents, that is. Did they… What else have they kept you from doing?”

Patrick laughs, more from the relief of Pete’s voice than his actual words. “God, you make it sound like they’ve been keeping me locked away until now! They aren’t fairy tale villains, Pete. They’re just… They want the best. That’s all.” Patrick sighs when Pete’s frown refuses to move; if anything, it grows even more upset. “I guess, like, if I had to choose something? It was the music. I always wanted to do something with music when I grew up but it’s not a sensible job, you know? Still, I used to dream of owning a ton of instruments and, I mean, I even learned some basics from a few friends in bands but it never turned into anything. Probably for the best. My folks would never allow it. They’re all business-like and would kill me if I ever thought of turning my back on that.”

“Huh,” Pete says after another brief pause. “So, you never got any instruments?”

Patrick laughs again at the absurdity of the thought. “Never. I’m the youngest and my siblings had already moved onto college by the time I really started getting into it. Trying to hide an instrument would be impossible or hell or both with all the focus on me.”

“But, like, what about your voice?” Pete asks, glancing over. “I mean, that’s a sort of instrument, right? Did you ever try singing?”

It’s another terrible thought that leaves Patrick wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. “Not an option when you suck at it.”

It’s not a joke or intentional self-deprecation but Pete still scoffs and shoves Patrick.

“You know, in my experience, the people who really suck are never convinced of the fact and the people who seem to think they’re horrible are the ones with secret hidden talents,” he says. Patrick bumps into him in response, cheeks heating as he does so.

“Oh? So, when you said you suck at acting, that really meant—”

“Shut up, it’s a completely different thing when  _ I  _ say it because I know how that whole system works. I can, like, bypass all those rules.”

“Right.” Patrick rolls his eyes. “And I guess I just pretend any of that made sense?”

“Nah,” Pete says. They stop at the end of the block, at the place where the school zone begins to turn into neighborhoods and busy streets. Patrick glances down the sidewalk; the theater, it turns out, is too close to the church for his comfort. “You just gotta let me hear you sing sometime and I’ll prove the entire theory’s true.”

Again, Patrick rolls his eyes— an action he has a feeling he’ll be performing more often around Pete— and follows as Pete leads him to a bench a bit further down the sidewalk. It’s away from the church and, for some reason, the fact comforts him.

“How about this? I’ll sing for you when you tell me your real name,” he says. It sounded clever in his head but, when he sees Pete’s widened grin, he has a feeling he may have been wrong.

“Oh, so I… I just have to wait until opening night? Fucking awesome.” Pete’s far more excited than Patrick’s sure he should be but something about that smile— that laugh, that light in his eyes— is contagious and, soon, Patrick is grinning, too.

“You really plan on keeping this up until opening night? Really?” He asks. Pete shrugs, still smiling with every secret kept safe beneath his tongue.

“I’d keep it up for longer if I could, but the program guide will have all cast names in it,” he says as if the upcoming physical evidence of Patrick’s illicit activities is something to joke about.

It leaves a prickling feeling across Patrick’s skin but he shrugs it all away, reminding himself that there would still be be cast pictures and other means of this getting out. All means, though, that his parents would never have any reason to find.

Still, he swallows and grasps for a distraction. 

“You know,” he says carefully, words pressed into his tongue with a gentle weight, “as long as you keep up the ‘Peter’ charade, the method acting thing, I don’t really know who you are. Like, the mystery is cool but it also means that the friendship thing could be fake. It’s just an extra rehearsal for you, I guess.”

When Pete falls silent this time, the world seems to follow his example; it stills with a gentle grace, a subtle slip away from reality, a slowed breath Patrick can only hope he’ll remember to complete. The air takes on a peculiar form of clarity, crisp and bright and magnifying the brilliance of Pete’s smile when he turns to Patrick with those teasingly upturned lips.

“And what are we rehearsing, then? Because I don’t think a friendship is what Joe was going for.” 

Patrick looks away even as his cheeks warm at the implications behind Pete’s words. He shoves him, pretending to laugh as he does so, and the world spins back into place. 

“You know what I mean, jackass,” he says, the playful tone more than natural as Pete laughs back. “Would it be so hard to let one person in on your secret?”

He forces himself to look back at Pete— a fatal mistake he knows he’ll make many times before the summer is through— and is greeted with the most vibrant shades of brown sparkling within Pete’s eyes.

“Secrets are only fun if they’re found out— for better or worse, I suppose.” Pete’s voice drops, not nearly a whisper but perhaps something that could pass for one onstage. “And I don’t think you’d have any trouble finding this one. You’re already closer than you think, after all.”

Patrick’s eyebrows furrow together, words spinning in and out of his head like a riddle plucked from Peter Pan’s pages. “What do you—”

“Tricky! There you are. Sorry it took a bit to get here. Are you ready to go?”

Aunt Kari’s voice replaces Patrick’s confusion and he pulls back from Pete with another stumbling remark that’s barely heard beneath his aunt’s constant chatter.

“Oh my god, I told her to pick me up, I’m sorry. I didn’t know she’d— Well, I guess, I mean… I should go.”

He’s ready to leave before Pete replies, the other boy’s childish glee drained and refilled with a more appropriate disoriented gaze. Still, the brush of his fingers across the back of Patrick’s hand sparks a fire, not unlike the flames burning in those eyes.

“Alright,” he says, smiling softly. “I’ll see you at practice, then.”

It’s a simple phrase; it’s nothing more than meaningless words. Still, Patrick’s mouth dries and he nods with red cheeks. 

“Yeah,” he says. “See you.”

Aunt Kari’s stopped shouting by the time he’s crawled into her van, plucking lint from the backseat and trying hard to avoid eye contact with Uncle Greg in the rearview mirror. Aunt Kari looks back from the passenger side as Uncle Greg drives away, a knowing smile on her lips.

It’s a smile Patrick would rather not see.

“So,” she begins, drawing out the word with the tone of a high school girl prepared to gossip, “you’ve made a friend, I see. Anyone I might know?”

Patrick bites back the response that he has no idea how he’s to know who Aunt Kari knows and covers his fading nerves with a half-hearted shrug. 

“I… I’m not sure,” he says honestly. “His name is… He goes by Pete. We just- We met while I was walking about.” 

“Oh.” If Aunt Kari doesn’t believe him, she doesn’t show it. It’s a relief Patrick’s happy to accept, thoughts of a concerned aunt snitching to his parents haunting his mind when he imagines revealing the truth of where he’d been. If his parents hated the arts so much, surely Aunt Kari would be quick to do the same? Or, at least, Uncle Greg. He certainly seems the type. 

“He looks familiar, though, that boy,” Aunt Kari continues, breaking Patrick from his fears. She’s faced forward again but Patrick can hear the frown in her voice, painting his thoughts with concern once more. “I never knew his name but I’ve definitely seen him around.”

“It’s a small town,” Uncle Greg says before Patrick can speak. “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of kids wandering around.”

“No,” Aunt Kari says, dragging out the word once more in her typical fashion. “I’m sure that I’d know if… Oh! Of course!” She says it with such sharp and sudden glee Patrick’s shoved back in his chair by the force of his recoil. “He’s that sweet boy of Dale’s! You remember her, Patrick, right? From the church work?”

“Uh.” Patrick has vague memories of a kind voice and worried hands ushering him out of the church but most of its blurred by the sensation of choking on dust and gasping for air. “Sure.”

Aunt Kari continues with a brighter tone. “He seems like such a nice boy from what Dale tells me. He started dating that Meagan girl down the street a few weeks back, right? I’m sure he did.”

“Maybe,” Uncle Greg says, as monotonous as ever. “Yes.”

Patrick’s stomach has no right to feel as tight as it does and his breaths have no business hitching like he’d witness his uncle running over a bird in the street. He’s just tired from being out all day, he’s sure; he’s just confused by what his aunt and uncle are saying.

“They’re the cutest couple,” Aunt Kari gushes, twisting ice into Patrick’s chest. “Maybe you’ll find a sweet girl, too, this summer.”

It’s just the reminder that he’s not out to his family that steals Patrick’s words. 

It’s just the secrets building beneath his skin that has him gritting his teeth and blinking back a burning in his eyes.

It’s just nothing, he tells himself. It’s stupid and it’s nothing at all.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The next time Patrick finds himself walking to practice, it’s amidst the hissing whistle of the wind and the warm slow drops of summer rain. His aunt had warned him it might not be as warm as the last week but Patrick had been so set on making it to rehearsal on time that he’d waved off the warningt. 

Perhaps he’d be more okay with the situation if he was walking from the house; he’d be prepared for a long walk and rested from doing nothing all day.

As fate would have it, though, Patrick’s walking the tiring distance from the church-turned-daycare. His hoodie’s tucked over the mess his hair’s become in the wind and he shoves his hands deep into his jeans. Sure, the church isn’t much farther from the theater than the house is but he’s been working for hours, tearing out carpets with none of the proper tools, and the wind pushing against him doesn’t seem to care of how his calves and thighs ache from the ridiculous position he’d been stuck in, kneeling over to pry decades old nails out.

It doesn’t help, either, that he’d worn his good jeans and a nice shirt for practice today. It’s not that he was trying to impress anybody, not really— he just wanted to make up for the screw-up he’d had last time before. It seems, though, his last free summer will be nothing than memories he’ll wish he can forget, embarrassment curling like rage in the red blossoms of his cheeks as he nears the theater doors.

Of course, Pete’s waiting for him the second he steps inside, Patrick sopping wet and dripping with blushing shame. Patrick mentally tosses the universe an emphatic middle finger while simultaneously trying to turn his scowl into a kind smile.

Pete, however, is too busy fussing over Patrick to notice.

“Dude, you didn’t seriously walk here, did you?” He asks, yanking Patrick’s hood free from his head to wring it out. 

“No,” Patrick says dryly. “I was practicing the scene where we almost drown.”

“You know, if your sarcasm wasn’t so strong, I’d almost believe you,” Pete says, still glancing worriedly at the water puddling around Patrick’s feet. He jumps and looks up with wide eyes when Patrick sneezes. “Seriously, you know you can always, like, call me for a ride or something, right? You don’t need to put up with our town’s shitty summer weather.”

The concern is nice but Patrick brushes it away, sniffling into his sleeve as he does so. The cold still clings to him with a vicious grip— almost as vicious as the memory that Pete, apparently, has a girlfriend. “It’s fine, I’ve dealt with rain before. And, like, I don’t need anyone going out of their way for me. So, yeah. It’s fine. Thanks, though.”

Pete frowns but it doesn’t last, the already familiar impish grin taking its place in a matter of moments. “Well, the offer’s out there if you need it. If anything, I guess, it’d help you show up on time. The others are just starting a scene in the theater if you’re ready to join in.”

Patrick’s embarrassment fades into guilt at Pete’s words— leave it to him to get vaguely scolded by Peter Pan— and he nods through his shivers. Though the theater has good heating, there’s something about the rain that just won’t leave his skin.

Of course, this is the thing Pete does decide to notice. His frown returns, though not quite as strong, and he steps back. Patrick doesn’t realize his heartbeat’s in danger until Pete starts pulling off the sweater he has on. Without a word, Pete lifts it over his head and Patrick’s heart stops. It doesn’t start again until Pete’s undershirt pulls up, showing off a mess of black ink imprinted on tan skin, just beneath Pete’s navel.

None of this is fair and Patrick’s unsure whether he’s having the best or worst summer ever.

“Here,” Pete says easily, tossing the sweater Patrick’s way. “I’ve had time to warm up.”

Patrick could object with claims that they barely know each other or that he’ll get it wet, both statements he plans on saying, but the fabric is surprisingly soft in his hands and, even from the slight distance, he can recognize Pete’s scent: his mint gum and the dust of the theater. As he pulls it over his head, biting his lip to keep back a satisfied sound, he can imagine it’s the smell of Neverland— Peter Pan’s youth and age wrapped up in a few quotidian sensations.

Patrick follows Pete into the theater just in time to watch the rest of the cast finish a scene, Joe nodding emphatically as Wendy— a girl Patrick’s come to know as Hayley— recites a pretty quote about mermaids and magic. She lights up as she speaks, throwing her arms out grandly and smiling like all of it’s a joke she’s planned. Patrick can’t help but grin at her excitement, though he does wonder whether her humor fits into the childlike awe she’s supposed to be showing. 

His wondering doesn’t seem to matter, though, because the scene is soon over and all eyes are on him and Pete.

“Oh, there you are,” Joe says simply. “We’ve just finished the opening scene with the Darling parents so it should be Wendy and Peter for a bit. Then we have John’s kiss scene if you two are up for that.”

Thoughts clouded by mint and dust and Pete’s proximity, Patrick begins to nod a bit more vigorously than he would like to. He blames it on the rain soaking into his skin and Pete’s shirt around him, along with the bit of logic telling him  _ better to get it over with now… _

His nodding, though, occurs at the exact same moment Pete grins and says, “Actually…”

Patrick turns to face him, half-offended and more than a bit confused. “ _ Actually _ ? What do you mean  _ actually _ ?” 

He doesn’t mean to sound as upset as he does and Pete’s smirk is enough to have Patrick biting back any more defensive words as they near the group.

“Look, okay, hear me out,” Pete says, causing the troupe to groan in unison. “No, seriously, it’s a great idea, okay? It’s just… Look. I’m a method actor. We all know this and we all know it works and— shut up, okay, it does. And, anyway, John’s giving away his first kiss in this. It’s cute and symbolic and we all loved it when we read the script. Well, I found out the most fascinating thing a bit ago.” Pete looks back at Patrick with another sharp smile and it’s in that moment that Patrick’s life begins to flash before his eyes— he doesn’t admit to how dull it seems. He opens his mouth to object to what’s about to happen but it’s far too late by the time he finds the proper words. 

“I learned that Patrick’s not had his first kiss, either,” Pete continues, seemingly unaware of all the ways Patrick’s planning to kill him. “And what kind of assholes would we be if we let that sort of authenticity go to waste?”

Patrick’s going to murder him, he swears. The room falls silent as Pete’s idea floats over everyone and Patrick uses the time to think of all the ways he can kill Peter Pan.

“That…” Joe starts, giving Patrick a bit of hope. Hope that he, of course, steals away without hesitation. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“It’s not a bad idea, at all,” Gerard, their actor for Captain Hook, agrees with a solemn nod. “I’m almost surprised you thought of it.”

And, just like that, everyone else begins to voice their overly supportive opinions— so supportive, in fact, that Pete nearly glows from how bright his grin is.

“It’ll be so cute, oh my god.”

“The audience will really be able to feel that.”

“I wouldn’t have taken him for a lip-virgin—”

“The audience will, though!”

_ Audience, audience, audience _ . Patrick’s going to throw up. 

There’s a lull in the conversation as everyone begins to flip through their scripts for the kiss scene, caught up in the excitement that is Patrick’s life. He takes the chance to determinedly state his stance on this whole idea.

“I’m not having my first kiss in front of an audience.” He means to sound strong— it comes out more like a stunned squeak. The rustling of papers slows to a stop and too many eyes land on him, confused with just the right amount of shame. If Patrick wasn’t too busy trying to sink into the center of the earth, he imagines he would hate all of them.

“But, Patrick, look at it this way,” Joe says. “It’ll get the audience to really connect and—”

“Look at it this way,” Pete interrupts, holding his hand up to Joe and ignoring the responding swears. “The other option is to have a make-out session every rehearsal.”

If Patrick wasn’t going to kill him before, he’s certainly going to do so now. He’s pretty sure Peter and John don’t “make out” but there’s no way to defend his position without sounding like he wants to kiss Pete every rehearsal.

Even if he does.

Patrick meets Pete’s gaze with as intense a glare as he can manage, tugging at his own hair and hating that he has nothing to hide behind. Too many people are watching him, waiting for him to either ruin or save their play. It’s a dramatic thought but, Patrick thinks, he’s surrounded by actors. He’s allowed to be a bit of a dramatic bitch.

“You’re going to owe me so much more than just your name after this,” Patrick says, hating himself as he does so. 

Though, when Pete smiles and laughs and pulls him in for a sloppy side hug, Patrick has to admit that some of his anger and hatred fades.

Some of it becomes something softer and warmer and kind.

Some of it wants to see Pete smile forever.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

If Patrick had expected for Pete’s bold acting decisions to conjure up a new form of magic within the script and Patrick’s feelings towards it, he’d be sorely mistaken. The group reads through the play as if nothing had happened, sat in a circle on the stage like it’s kindergarten all over again. Patrick finds himself stuck between Peter Pan and Captain Hook and pulls his shoulders in towards himself, trying his best not to touch anybody.

They’re nearing the Kiss Scene— all capitalized in Patrick’s mind, maybe even italicized and underlined if he looks over at Pete for long enough. He knows, too, that his nerves are more than obvious if Gerard’s reassuring smile is anything to go by.

“It is perfectly lovely the way the lost boys talk about girls. John there just despises us,” Hayley reads, the name of his character causing Patrick’s head to jerk up. His thoughts scatter and he looks back down at the script, trying to find where they are. “John is absolutely wicked. Peter, tell him he is not captain here!”

“Oh, I would think John could be captain if he wished,” Pete says just as Patrick finds their spot on the next page. “In fact, I think John could be anything, at all.”

Pete puts more emotion in his lines than Patrick’s sure he needs to and, going by the rolling of his eyes, Joe agrees. Still, the tenderness in his tone has Patrick’s stomach fluttering with nerves.

“You’re too kind, Peter.” While Pete’s words undulated to the thumping rhythm of Patrick’s pounding heart, Patrick’s fall flat with small bumps of fear and insecurity. He clears his throat quickly and tries again. “Would it bother anyone too much if I took some time to speak with you alone?”

“Of course not,” Pete says, nodding though they aren’t supposed to be moving onto actions yet. “Everyone! John and I shall be gone to speak! Slightly, you are in charge until—”

A series of beeps interrupt him, sounding off from Pete’s pocket and loud enough for more than a few people to jump in surprise. Pete himself widens his eyes and reaches for it, smiling apologetically but scowling once he recognizes the name.

“Sorry, um, I need… I need to get this. I’ll be right back? Slightly, you’re in charge,” he mumbles, pointing at the shorter dark-haired boy next to Gerard. He stands, answering the phone amidst a chorus of groans and protests shouting out for him, Patrick’s voice the only one refusing to join in.

“Ah, shit, of course he would,” Joe swears, watching Pete disappear behind the backstage curtains with the phone to his ear. The familiar light-hearted feeling of the room fades as silence settles among them, Joe sighing to break it after a few tense seconds. “Well? You heard him, Frank. Take over for Peter.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? The guy just walked out, you’re not gonna drop him for that?” Frank asks, leaning back and gesturing wildly in the direction Pete had gone.

“Yeah, unless you see anyone else willing to step in as Peter Pan last minute, I suggest you get started on reading,” Joe says, pinching the bridge of his nose. His words are far from threatening but Frank reaches for the script in front of him anyway.

“Oh my god, whatever. We’re still not doing the kiss, though.” He pauses, sighing dramatically as Patrick flushes. Finally, after finding the right spot, he begins. “Slightly, you’re in charge until we’re back. Keep the boys in line.” He stops, stares around in the silence, before setting the script on the stage. “ _ Oh, look, I’m Slightly, too, you assholes.” _

“Shut up,” Joe says before rambling through Frank’s lines without missing a beat. “Aye-aye, sir. Good, okay, now continue as Peter.”

Frank rolls his eyes and Patrick finds himself wondering if every rehearsal will be as tiring as this. “Well, they are gone now, John. But I would be quick— Tootles is known for sneaking off.”

“Right, well—” Patrick’s stammering isn’t in the script but no one mentions it so he continues with the same stuffed up tone. “I wanted to thank you for bringing me to Neverland. It’s quite unusual but far greater than any boy back home could have dreamed.”

“You don’t often speak of home, do you, John?” Frank says his lines with a more practiced tone of acting, too mature to be Peter Pan but more believable in how he says it. Compared to Pete’s overacting, he’s a star. Still, as he looks above his script and towards Patrick, Patrick can’t help but wish he was practicing with the real thing. “Why is that? I know Neverland is magical but is home so horrible a place that you would prefer the dangers we have here?”

“Oh, yes,” Patrick reads. “Home is no place for people like you, Peter. It’s for boys like me— the boys that parents raise for jobs and money and marriage. There are no mermaids or pirates or fairies and, well, there are simply just no people like you.”

Patrick’s eyes wander towards the slight shuffling behind the curtains, the sight of Pete peering out with a scowl on his face as he speaks into the phone, voice low enough that Patrick can’t do more than guess at the words he’s saying. 

Unaware of all this, Frank continues. “And do you like people like me?”

“I… I think I do,” Patrick says, eyes locked on Pete. “I imagine people back home would love you.”

“Oh!” Frank’s voice fades and Patrick hears only the words. “And would you love me, John?”

Pete pulls the phone from his ear and storms out just as Patrick stumbles over John’s confession.

“Love you?” He says, eyes dropping back to the script as Pete settles back beside him. “I don’t know a thing about love— they don’t tell boys like me how to do that, after all. But… Peter, I think I want to love you.”

No one hears much of Patrick’s voice as Pete declares he’s back, his voice and smile strained, and Patrick’s glad for it. His words are all wrong, distracted and tense, and they aren’t anything he can imagine anyone saying. Still, when Pete holds his script clenched in tight fists, Patrick can imagine exactly who such words would be said to.

“And how would you do that?” Pete asks, the switch from Frank’s voice causing Patrick to blink at the script in an attempt to clear his mind. Pete’s tone is harsher than before, clashing against the softer words and tossing the gentle scene into a disarray as others look on in attempts to guess at his frustration.

“A kiss, I suppose,” Patrick says quickly, heart racing. “Peter, you can give me a kiss.”

“So when Wendy gave me a kiss it meant she loves me,” Pete says, voice flat as he mimes holding something out. Patrick frowns down at his script but not before catching the worried gazes of those around him. What could possibly have made Pete’s demeanor change so suddenly? Was it truly the phone that inspired such irritation or, Patrick wonders, is it something Patrick has done since his return?

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean a kiss, Peter. I meant a thimble,” Patrick says, his voice lower than before as he tries to recall what he’d done to upset Pete.

“What is that?” 

Patrick’s fairly certain Peter Pan is not supposed to sound so snappy. 

He swallows. He knows they’re not supposed to act anything out yet but saying the lines without movement almost feels worse than going for the kiss altogether. 

“It is a sign that you love someone and I meant it when I said I could love you. Let me show you, it is like this…” He trails off and a beat of silence follows, the sound of an action missing— the moment where John leans in to pretend to kiss Peter. When no one speaks, Patrick tugs at his hair and feigns a smile, looking up shyly to find Joe watching in expectation. “I’m sorry. Joe, did you want me to—”

“Then I will give you a thimble. And I will wait for the moment that your love can be true.” Pete cuts him off, words running into each in their rush to escape. Panic, as thick as the embarrassment Patrick had already been feeling, falls onto his chest, palpable and tight. The line is to be followed by a kiss and Patrick had somehow been expecting Pete to make a deal out of it— to laugh, to joke, to feign the action then pull away. Instead, he tosses his script to the floor and leaves. “I need to go.”

This time, no one calls after. No one groans or jokes or sighs. Silence takes control and fear of bitter friends has always been Patrick’s weakness.

He pushes himself to shaking legs and runs after a boy he barely knows.

Patrick finds Pete by the exit doors, rain splashing against the side of the building with a rhythmic beat. He watches for a moment as Pete texts, thumbs slamming against the screen like hail, before deciding to approach him. With quiet steps, Patrick moves closer and only the wide flash of eyes shows that Pete has noticed him at all.

“Don’t tell me,” Pete says without too much passion, still staring back down at his phone. “I stormed out, didn’t I?”

Patrick’s not one for preambles but, as Pete shoves his phone into his pocket and then turns to face him, he almost wishes he had been given the chance to prepare. Even the show has granted him a script; it’s not fair he’s been cast into something else requiring so much improv. “Um, I mean, kinda. But it’s not a big deal, really, I just… Is everything okay? Like, with you?” He bites back the questions wondering if he’s to blame, unwilling to tempt fate.

“Yeah, mostly,” Pete grumbles, hands finding their way into his pockets. He puts on an affectation of something calm but Patrick can still see the fury in his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. “It’s my girlfriend and it’s stupid. She found the script in my room last night and she… fuck, it’s so dumb.” 

Patrick’s energy guiltily rises, his hopes awakening with a cool and delicate dance in his chest. “Oh, is she jealous?”

“No, I could deal with jealous,” Pete snaps, though the hint of regret in his eyes shows he probably doesn’t mean to. “She’s just… She doesn’t like that Peter Pan is gay. Or implied to be gay. Or whatever the hell Joe wants to label him as, I don’t care. It’s just stupid judgment and it’s the last thing I need right now. So I told her we need a break and I was expecting a fight but I guess she’s just worried people will say she turned me gay. You know what it’s like to have someone who cares about you suddenly stop because of something stupid like who you might like?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, quicker than he means to. “Well, actually, I guess… yes and no. My family doesn’t really know I’m gay? But if they found out they would freak out. It’s why I can’t tell my aunt or uncle why I’ve been hanging out around here, actually. I’m pretty sure my entire family’s a mess of old-fashioned homophobia.” 

Pete stares at him without translation, eyes unreadable and mouth turned into something that could either be a smile or frown. Patrick looks away, laughing off the emotions rising like waves in his gut. 

“So, I mean,” Patrick says. “That’s just one of the many reasons won’t wouldn’t be bringing me flowers on opening night. Let’s not even get started on how my parents feel about drama club and other useless skills.”

Patrick keeps his eyes on the rain outside as Pete considers his words, watching the puddles coalesce into small rivers down the street. It’s a pretty sight, breathtaking, but not nearly enough to distract him from the feeling of Pete’s eyes on him.

“I get that,” Pete says, something softer in his words. “My family supports what I do but that doesn’t mean they’ll show up. I think they think it’s just a hobby or phase but I’m used to it by now.”

When Patrick looks up into Pete’s eyes, every nerve in his body shoots an electric shot through his system and he bites down on his tongue to keep from making any humiliating sounds. 

He decides in that moment that he might be falling for Pete. It’s not a thought that brings any amount of surprise.

“I’ll bring you flowers,” Pete says suddenly, interrupting the rain with his smile. “Opening night’s a big deal and it should be special for you. I’ll bring flowers, don’t worry.”

Patrick’s sure he’s supposed to reciprocate, joke about bringing Pete a bouquet of roses. Somehow, the words don’t quite shape properly on his tongue. “You don’t mean that.”

Pete doesn’t laugh, doesn’t wink or insinuate that any bit of this is a joke. He only smiles and places a warm hand on Patrick’s arm. “You’ll see that I do.”

As the rain overpowers their voices with water and wind, Patrick can only hope that this is the promise Pete decides to keep.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Though Patrick’s certain he did nothing to deserve the toils of daily manual labor, he did earn the right to enjoy the summer warmth and he deeply intends to indulge in such pleasures. Even if it comes at the cost of evaluating the messy lawn of a church-turned-daycare. Patrick watches as Aunt Kari scribbles garden ideas onto the graph paper in her hand, the shape of the yard drawn meticulously in blue ink. She bites the end of her pen, glancing around with eyes that are probably seeing the potential for petunias and sunflowers everywhere.

“How tall do sunflowers get to be?” She asks, confirming Patrick’s thoughts. Patrick doesn’t get the chance to make up an answer before she’s waving him off, writing something down as she does so. “Oh, never mind. We can look that up later. I still need to run it over with the rest of the volunteers, after all.” 

Obviously, a clever, helpful remark is called for. “Alright.” 

Aunt Kari ignores him again and continues with the garden plans, marching over weeds and grass as if they aren’t there. Patrick follows, sighing and reminding himself that the sun, at least, is nice.

He knows he didn’t have to come today— most members of the volunteer group have claimed their projects by now and his aunt’s is more of a one person job— but he feels he owes it to her after all the secrets he’s been keeping— like the play and theater and…

“Oh, honey, look, it’s that friend of yours.”

Patrick turns his head just a bit too quick to be healthy, yelping at the sharp pain in his neck as he does so.

The ache in his neck, though, is nothing compared to the ripping sensation in his chest when he sees Pete and a lovely dark-haired girl walking side-by-side down the sidewalk across the street. 

Patrick doesn’t mean to stare— though he supposes he can pass it off as interest in seeing one of his so-called friends outside of rehearsal. Still, crushes are cruel things and he can’t find the words necessary to assure his aunt that this behavior isn’t entirely abnormal. 

Thankfully, she saves him the trouble by beating him to it. 

“So, have you become good friends with that boy?” She asks. It sounds like it could be a trap but, as Patrick watches Pete speaking with that girl— Meagan, he assumes—, he finds he doesn’t quite care.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes still on Pete. It’s not fair that Pete can smile with her the way he smiles with him when they’re playing Peter and John. It feels a bit as if he’s seeing him out of character, for once— uninterested in everything to do with Patrick and living a life Patrick has no script for. “We’ve, um, we’ve been hanging out a lot.”

Hanging out is one way to describe it and Patrick wonders what would happen if his aunt knew the truth— that he and Pete call each other love interests on a stage, that he’s been sneaking away to a theater with his heart in his throat each time. The cast has moved on from simple readings to blocking and, soon enough, they’ll be expected to act out their scenes in full. Patrick’s stomach twists in a hundred different way when he questions whether Pete will only kiss him once— if he’ll really save it for opening night.

Not for the first time, he wishes he had never realized his crush. Life is so much simpler when the butterflies in his guts are left unexplained.

Aunt Kari pauses, placing a hand on her hip.

“Gonna get back to work anytime soon, there?” She teases. Patrick flushes and tears his eyes away from the couple, apologizing as he does so. Aunt Kari merely laughs, shaking her head. “Don’t feel bad. At least I know you have good taste. Meagan’s a lovely girl.”

Spite curls in Patrick’s chest and thought, right along with misplaced betrayal and jealousy. He shrugs, walking past her to mark out another weedy area of the lawn.

Behind him, he swears he hears Aunt Kari mutter that the boy he’d been staring at, the boy with Meagan, was lovely, as well.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Somewhere along the line, Aunt Kari passes the notepad to Patrick and leaves him with vague instructions to “design the garden.” It’s a simple task and she’s already listed the flowers she’d like but it takes time and the sun— once kind— has become a dull aching heat and the beginning itches of sunburn have settled across his arms. 

Still, he hasn’t ever minded the chance to doodle so he spends his time humming to himself as he draws. He’s more fantastical with it than he knows he should be and he can already tell his aunt’s going to have to cut down some of the ideas or even scrap it altogether. Bushes and trees and vines line Patrick’s vision, a garden worthy of a palace sketched out in smudged pencil lead. The sight, though, brings a smile to his face.

He’s just putting the finishing touches on the sunflowers— reaching high above the building, searching for the sky— when a strange shadow falls across his drawings. He glances up with furrowed brows, not entirely surprised to see Pete standing there, hands on his hips as if he knows Patrick was craving the shade.

“Hey,” Pete says after a bit, tilting his head to the side. “I thought I recognized you over here earlier. What’s up?”

Patrick frowns, eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen Pete glance this way before and, even if he had, when did he have time to escape Meagan?

“Not much,” Patrick says, sighing when Pete sits beside him. “Just, um, working on this stuff, I guess. My aunt’s really into volunteer work so I got dragged into the great ambitions of reworking this place into something better. A daycare, I guess.”

“Oh, wow.” Pete’s eyes are wide and round, the image of Peter Pan’s eternal youth. “So, you’ve been doing this  _ and  _ the play? Dude, that’s so cool!”

Patrick’s sure he’d be blushing if his face wasn’t already so red and hot from the sun. “Well, I mean, they’re at different times so it’s, yeah, it’s all fine.”

“Ugh, not what I meant,” Pete says with an eye roll. Patrick merely shrugs, beginning to tuck the notepad away before Pete can see it. Of course, this is exactly when it catches Pete’s eye. “Hey, what’s that?”

Just like a little boy, a child, a messy brat, he snatches the papers from Patrick’s hands and glances them over with that constant look of astonishment. “Oh, flowers?”

“It’s just stupid stuff for the garden,” Patrick says quickly, yanking down the brim of his hat and fighting every urge to reach across and snatch the notepad from Pete’s hands. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Come on, it’s so cool,” Pete says, twisting the paper back and forth as if a new angle will reveal something deeper in the scribbles. Patrick says nothing, pinching his hat between his fingers and shrugging. Pete glances over, his smile dropping just a bit. “I mean it, dude. What, did you think I was going to laugh?”

That’s exactly what Patrick thought but saying so out loud would sound ridiculous. He takes the notepad when Pete offers it and forces a careless smile onto his face. 

“I mean, when you get made fun of for shit like this in school it kinda makes you want to hide it.” He says it like it’s nothing— because it is nothing, he reminds himself. High school is over and, soon enough, he’ll be headed to a college where nobody will care to know his name.

It’s a lot less sad than it sounds, he’s sure.

Pete, though, looks as if Patrick had just admitted to hating him. 

“You were bullied?” He asks, sounding far more hurt than Patrick’s sure he— an attractive, popular boy— has any right to. 

“I was a closeted gay band geek with a bedtime. I’m lucky I wasn’t bullied  _ more _ .” Pete looks like he wants to object and Patrick cuts in before he gets the chance. “Anyway, I’d actually prefer if we talked about literally anything else right now.”

It’s only when Pete moves away that Patrick realizes how close he had been before, both shade and warmth escaping when he lies down on the grass beside Patrick.

“Talk about something else, huh?” There’s a twinkle in his eye that Patrick doesn’t particularly like— doesn’t particularly hate. It’s gone in an instant, trapped when Pete closes his eyes. “Oh, I would think John could beat all those bullies if he wished.” 

Patrick starts at the sudden shift in tone, the misquoted lines, and stares down at Pete grinning up at him with his eyes cracked open. Patrick’s mouth dries, though his palms are suddenly slick with sweat— something he easily blames on the sun though he knows it’s not entirely true.

“In fact, I think John could do anything at all.”

Patrick looks away, eyes stuck on a bare patch of grass that should really have some lilies or some other flower on it.

“You’re too kind, Peter,” he says, more to himself than anyone. “You’re far too kind.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The meetings at the church-turned-daycare become a second rehearsal, a secret practice the rest have no reason to know. The grass and faded bricks beckon to the two lost boys like fairy dust, sparkling in the midday sun as if it’s midnight moon glancing down upon the scripts. Time topples over the edges of days and weeks in front of Patrick’s eyes, two weeks passing before either of them have the chance to realize.

The end of these two weeks finds them seated outside the church, a group of workers putting a bench in the yard behind them. Ice cream coats their lips and tongues in thin layers, vanilla for both though Pete has twice the amount. The words from the kiss scene fill the air, hushed lest the workers overhear. It’s a scene Patrick has memorized by now— one of the few— but he looks down at his script anyway, an excuse not to look at Pete while he confesses any form of love. 

“I think I want to love you,” Patrick says, for once saying it without butterflies or nerves. He waits for Pete’s next line, breathing deeply to keep from thinking too much of how strange it is that the kiss scene is all they seem to practice. He licks the ice cream melting onto his hand—

—and feels cold lips pressed against his cheek.

Patrick goes stiff at the feeling, Pete’s breath warming the spot he’d just pressed his lips to. He lingers by Patrick’s ear, whispering words like a promise when he says, “and how would you do that?”

The quote brushes against Patrick’s cheek with the tenderness of Pete’s lips, warm and cold at once. Ice cream sticking to his skin as the only reminder it ever happened when Pete pulls away.

Suddenly trembling— butterflies back as if they’d never left— Patrick chokes out his next line.

“A kiss, I suppose,” Patrick says. He doesn’t look at Pete, doesn’t dare turn his head though temptation tugs through his mind. “Peter, you can give me a kiss.”

Pete doesn’t say the next words, dropping his script into his lap as if the scene had ended. Patrick watches the pages fluttering lightly in summer breeze, the white ice cream dripping down Pete’s hand, the curve of his throat when he licks it away.

“I think that’s enough practice for today,” Pete says. “After all, I did give you that kiss.”

Patrick looks away— whether to hide his blushing cheeks or uncomfortable thoughts, he’s not sure. 

“Not at the right time,” he says.

“Well, no,” Pete says, standing as the workers behind them walk back to their trucks, muttering about the workday. He keeps silent until Patrick’s forced to look at him; when, finally, their eyes are on each other’s, Pete dirties the innocence with a wink. “That wasn’t part of the practice.”

A worker calls Patrick’s name— perhaps to ask about his aunt’s whereabouts, perhaps assuming he knows more than he does— before he can reply.

He decides it’s for the best and lets Pete pack their scripts away.

They can always try the scene again tomorrow, after all.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Sometimes Patrick forgets that time doesn’t exist for him alone. It doesn’t still at his request and it doesn’t wait for him to figure out his mess of emotions. It ticks on with the relentless clicking of every clock, seconds passing in the form of sunshine fading in and out of each day.

So, when the end of the month nears, Patrick still manages to act surprised. 

Confusion scrawls senseless patterns against the inside of Patrick’s skull each time Pete stops by the daycare— enough work done for him to feel comfortable in calling it a daycare rather than a church or any sort of in-between nickname. They pass through their lines like they’re nothing but they mean more with each moment. Patrick puts more feeling into his character and Pete teases Patrick with a dozen more kisses on the cheek.

He carries these teasing moments into the theater, as well— a fact Patrick both loathes and adores. It’s easy to pretend they mean nothing when they stand upon a stage, a half-painted set behind them and makeshift props around them. The scripts left their hands long ago and it’d almost be wrong for Pete to not press a kiss to Patrick’s hand or cheek.

Still, it doesn’t keep Patrick from stumbling over the following lines, something Joe sighs about loudly each time.

Today is no different as Pete and Patrick wander into the rehearsal, coming straight from the daycare. Patrick steals glances at Pete’s skin the way Pete steals friendly kisses on the cheek from him, quickly and with no shame. The sun had been peeking through the clouds, casting a rainbow over the building before they’d walked in, and Pete’s shines from the soft sheen of sweat across his body.

It’s no fair but, still, Patrick can’t complain. Especially not when Pete’s smiling like  _ that _ , making jokes only Patrick will get, laughing along like he’s the harmony to the melody in Patrick’s voice.

“Wow,” someone— Andy, probably— says from the stage, their tone dry. “Don’t we all wish we had a friendship like that?”

“Friendship?” Hayley cuts in, pulling her hair back into a stubby ponytail as Pete and Patrick come to a stop before her. “Dude, everyone can feel the tension from backstage. That’s no friendship— the two losers have just taken the roles a bit too much to heart.”

Shades of red and pink illuminate Patrick’s face but he’s saved from a response as Pete nudges his shoulder before squirming onto the stage, too short to properly hop up. 

“Yeah, you know me, Wendy,” he says, grinning up at her with a winning smile. “An absolutely obsessive method actor.”

Hayley rolls her eyes and mimes kicking Pete off the stage. “You’ve never been a good actor, Peter. Don’t pretend to start now.”

Patrick laughs at the wounded face Pete pulls— more proof of his horrid acting than anything else— but drops his smile when a flash of red-grey hair catches his eye.

“Aunt Kari?” He chokes out, hoping desperately that the older woman speaking with Joe is anyone but his aunt. 

As always, neither fate nor the universe is on his side.

“Oh, hi, Tricky!” She calls out, waving happily from the stage. “I was just getting to know the director. He’s so sweet.”

Patrick blinks a few times, trying to make sense of the words. Once he accepts that none of them make sense, he rushes the stage and grabs his aunt’s arm.

“Right,” he says, nodding more to himself than anyone else. “Let’s go talk backstage.”

The darkness behind the thick curtains drains the previous joy from Patrick’s mind, leaving him with nails in his stomach and his heart in his throat. Aunt Kari continues to ramble about the set and the play and the stage and Patrick’s not quite certain if she understands he’s part of all this.

“Hey,” he says, interrupting a long-winded ramble about costume design. “It’s not… It’s not what it looks like, okay? I’m just hanging out with a few friends and, like, I don’t know why you’re here or what you’re thinking but it’s… It’s…. Don’t tell mom and dad, okay?” His voice grows smaller with each word, his arms wrapping around himself as if he can defend him from any form of prejudice or judgment.

None of this is a joking matter but Aunt Kari still manages to laugh. It’s light and warm but, as Patrick glances up, it’s still a laugh.

“I found the script in your bedroom,” she says, her normally exuberant voice hushed down to a softer sound. “ _ Your  _ script, I’m assuming, if the highlighted lines are anything to go by. And I shouldn’t have been snooping but I read through it and…” She trails off and Patrick’s heart skips a thousand beats.

“Don’t tell them,” he tries again, feeling like a school child asking a teacher to show mercy. 

Aunt Kari smiles and places a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He jumps and tries to shake it away but, still, it remains.

“It sounds good,” she says. It’s gentle enough for Patrick to gaze up at her with disbelieving eyes. His mind, which had been tearing itself to shambles from nerves and panic, struggles to keep up with what she’s saying. “Look, I know how your parents can be but, I’ll be honest, I never cared much for their ideas. I don’t mind who you’ve got a crush on or who you don’t. I care about  _ you  _ and what makes you happy, Tricky. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Patrick swallows, determined not to make a scene out of how off those words feel, how strange they are next to years of hiding. “Oh, okay. That’s… That’s good. And… But why are you here, then?”

At this, Aunt Kari’s smile falls and Patrick wonders if he’d been worried about the wrong things.

“I’m here because not everyone feels the way I do,” she says. She rubs her arm, brushing against the curtain and causing it to shudder. “This group is a small exception in this town. A lot of people would be against this show if they knew what you were doing with it. Your uncle… your parents, Patrick! I don’t want you to get hurt in all the cruel gossip that can happen around here.”

Patrick bites his lip and looks away. It’s the same thing Andy had said while explaining the decision to have John and Peter kiss— trick the homophobic town into seeing a gay play. It’s a bold move— a terrifying choice. 

When he looks back up at his aunt, it’s with a steady gaze, unwilling to show any sign of uncertainty.

“I know,” he says, the whisper echoing back to him. “But I already made a commitment here. It… It wouldn’t be fair to back out because I’m afraid of backlash or something— and I’m not. Afraid, that is. I’m… These are good people and I want to be here with them. My parents don’t need to find out and, I mean, I’m gone at the end of summer, right? They can’t do anything to me, then.”

Patrick’s nerves rake the hair at the back of his neck into sharp prickly points, Aunt Kari’s stare only making it worse. Silence presses between them, allowing time for thoughts and considerations, until she finally sighs and shakes her head.

“Just be safe, okay?” She asks, smiling ruefully at Patrick. It’s a nice enough smile that Patrick tries his best not to cringe when she bends to press a kiss into his hair, right beside his cap. “It looks like a fun play. I’ll get a ticket and everything.”

Patrick laughs and shoves her away, hands still shaking from the sight of her here. “Yeah, that’ll be… Yeah, that would be nice.”

“I suppose I should let you practice now,” Aunt Kari says, her smile still bright. “Oh, and I was talking to the director— Joseph?— about donating some of the unused materials from the daycare towards the set. I’m gonna go follow up on that before heading out. See you in time for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, ducking away from her hand as she tries to pet his head before passing by. The curtains shake as she exits and Patrick lets out the breath he’d been holding since the conversation began.

It all comes back in a sudden gasp when he turns and sees Pete standing in the shadows, a strange look on his face.

“You’re leaving after summer?” Pete asks. Patrick’s stomach turns.

Pete didn’t know? Patrick must have told him at least once. Or hinted at it or— Patrick backs away, hitting the curtains at the same time he’s hit with guilt.

“I meant to tell you,” he says, unsure if it’s a lie or not. “But I have college and… and my parents really want me to go and… I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

He expects anger; he’s sure he deserves it. Though, for what reason, he’s not quite certain.

Instead of any sort of temper, though, Pete merely manages to look like Patrick told him he was quitting the play— an unforgivable crime at this point.

“But that’s barely a month left.” Pete sounds the way Patrick had before, small and uncertain. It causes something in Patrick’s chest to ache in ways it hasn’t ever ached before.

But why would Pete look so distraught? The play will be over by then and everyone will be going their separate ways. 

Does… Does Pete want him to stay? Does he really care so much? Does he— Could he feel the same way Patrick does?

As impossible as they are, there’s no way to keep such hopes from tumbling through Patrick’s thoughts. And he does have just a month left— can’t he indulge in a few?

“Pete, do you—”

“Okay, let’s get started!” Joe calls out from the stage, interrupting Patrick’s unplanned words. “I want a full run-through today.”

And Pete disappears without a glance back, leaving Patrick lost and scrambling to find his place outside amongst other actors portraying people they aren’t. Is Patrick the only one playing true to his character? The one pining after Peter like it’s all he knows how to do?

He never meant to become such a cliche but, watching Pete put on a smile and act, he can’t help but be okay with it.

Today, as scenes go on with only a few interruptions from Joe, Pete seems out of character. He plays more dismally than he should, hesitating before certain lines and misquoting himself throughout. He doesn’t respond to his moniker in the same way and, in all their scenes together, Pete barely glances at Patrick.

That is, until they arrive at  _ the  _ scene— the kiss scene. He’s as distant as ever throughout most of it, gazing out at the other actors and ignoring Joe’s frustrated signs to stand closer to Patrick, to behave more intimately, to say his lines with more emotion.

But, then, they’re nearly through the scene and Patrick says his line before the kiss, a line that coats his tongue with every feeling he has to keep hidden away.

“It is a sign that you love someone and I meant it when I said I could love you,” he says. He shifts his weight as Pete turns to face him. Is it acting when his eyes search Patrick’s like that? Is it his character when he steps closer, close enough Patrick can see perfect curves in Pete’s straightened hair? Patrick chokes on his next line, wishing he could break character and step away— how brave is John to keep saying these words like they are nothing? “Let me show you. It is like this…” 

They haven’t yet spoken of how Patrick is to mime the kiss and he feels like a fool when he does nothing but let his eyes fall to Pete’s lips. Pete will press a kiss to his cheek, anyway, or make a joke out of the kiss on his own. There’s no need to do so twice.

Pete leans in and Patrick doesn’t back away— he doesn’t do more than turn his head and wait for the sloppy press of chapped lips against his skin.

Instead, he feels Pete’s hand on the back of his head, fingers tangled in his hair and turning him back to face him. Pete leans in, appearing as afraid as Patrick feels.

The entire room— world, universe— stills and Pete stops just short of Patrick’s lips, his hot breath the only proof that time is still moving.

“Then I will give you a thimble,” he says, his other hand stroking down Patrick’s cheek. Pete’s words hitch at Patrick’s sharp intake of breath, shutting his eyes and whispering his next words. “And I will wait for the moment that your love can be true.”

Pete opens his eyes and Patrick can count every star trapped within them; wishes rest upon his tongue at the sight, desperate dreams he swallows back down.

He doesn’t know who pulls back first but Pete’s the one to exit the stage before the rest, Joe calling after him as Hayley hurries into position beside Patrick.

“A little louder next time,” Joe says. “But, overall, great acting.”

Pete looks over his shoulder but something about it is off— something about it is meant only for Patrick.

And Patrick can only measure his breaths and look away.

_ Acting? _

Suddenly, Patrick isn’t so sure.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ “It’s a sign that you love someone and I meant it when I said I could love you…” _

_ “… And I will wait for the moment that love can be true.” _

If Patrick had a favorite moment in the play, it would be this: this moment where his guard drops and his script burns and he’s left with the sweetest of honesties dripping from his tongue. Metaphors flip through his stomach like promises, new words for acting and charades as Pete puts on a pretty smile and pretends he could ever want Patrick to love him, too. 

And, for all the jeering and cruelties tossed his way, Pete is good at pretending. It’s not anything Patrick admits aloud— the mere utterance leading to more unfair jokes and laughter the one time he tried— but it is a thought he ties tightly to his chest. 

Pete had grinned at the flattery but shoved Patrick all the same. 

“You think too highly of me,” he had said. “You see the world through some strong rose-colored glasses if you really think I’m a good actor.”

No, Patrick’s certain he doesn’t. Or, if he does, the glasses were fashioned in the shape of Pete’s smirk.

No one— not Patrick, not Aunt Kari, not Pete— speaks of how Patrick won’t be here for longer than the rest of the month, though Patrick sees the words forming in Pete’s lips each time he picks up his script. A script they don’t need but both hide behind— a script with words Patrick only wishes he was brave enough to make his own.

It’s a few weeks later, though, when Pete sets his script down and aids Patrick in taking down the theater’s most recent set. Gerard and a few of his friends had taken the task of props and backgrounds as their own and the results couldn’t be lovelier. The Neverland sky shines with rainbows and glistening clouds, shimmering arcs against the cerulean paint. Only a few more settings are yet to be done and, with each new addition, Patrick’s heart beats nervously in anticipation for the nearing opening night.

“Just a few more weeks left,” Pete says, reading Patrick’s mind as he always seems to do. “You think Gee will get that pirate ship done in time?”

“I think… Yeah, probably,” Patrick says, grunting as they carry the set backstage together. Everyone else had left early, Pete and him sticking around with the promise that they were still rehearsing— a promise no one expected them to keep. “He’s pretty good with that stuff.”

Pete hums his agreement, dusting his hands off on his jeans once the set’s been placed away with the costumes and other props. He lets a moment pass before speaking, veering off script like it’s part of his role. “Do you know what day you’re going home?”

The words shock Patrick with biting pinpricks of panic and guilt, the phrasing all wrong as he tries to imagine anything other than this theater as home. He shrugs, the action jerky as his muscles tense.

“The end of the month,” he forces out, the answer sticking to his tongue with a bitter taste. “That’s all I know now but… I’m sure my parents will let me know the plan once it gets closer.”

Again, Pete hums. It’s a softer sound than before, a bit lower and flatter. It fills the air like a balloon expanding, pressing against Patrick’s chest until he can barely breathe.

And then, like the delicate push of a needle, Pete turns and he smiles and Patrick can suddenly feel his lungs once more.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Pete asks, voice light. Didn’t he feel the weight of summer’s end on his shoulders mere moments ago? Couldn’t he hear Patrick’s heart beating painfully against his chest? It’s moments like these where Patrick sees Pete as a wonderful actor; it’s moments like these where he wishes he could seem half as prepared. 

“What?” Patrick asks, eyes wide as he faces Pete. Pete doesn’t repeat himself, smiling patiently with shadows and lights playing tricks on his face. 

It’s the same question Pete’s been asking for a while now, ever since he found out about Patrick’s upcoming departure. Each time, Patrick’s said no; his aunt’s been covering for him but it’s only a matter of time before Uncle Greg and his ilk realize there’s something less than innocent between Patrick and his Peter Pan.

But Pete’s eyes glimmer with promises that weren’t there before, oaths Patrick had missed the last time he glanced over. Pete’s hand finds his wrist without asking, tugging like a child whose patience has run out. 

“Come on,” he says, sounding whiny without changing his voice at all. “Just for a little while?”

“Just for a- Where-” Patrick lets himself get pulled along, through the theater and out the doors, Pete shutting off the lights as they go, leaving only the ghost light onstage. It should feel eerie or wrong, the shadows dancing along the walls as they leave, but Patrick knows the sun rests in Pete’s smile and he allows himself to mistake warmth for bravery. “Oh, alright. Is it close?”

“Not really,” Pete admits, dropping Patrick’s hand as they reach the parking lot. It’s mostly empty but for a lone mountain bike tied up to a nearby rack, out of place in the simple neighborhood setting. 

Patrick blinks once, twice; he stares at Pete unlocking the bike from the rack and then blinks again. “We’re not both fitting on that.”

“Sure, we are,” Pete grins, bringing the bike back to Patrick. “It’s a pretty big bike— and you can blame my dad for that, by the way, this used to be his— and I’ve done it loads of times. You just gotta, like, hop onto the handles.” He pats the handlebar as if Patrick wouldn’t know what he meant. “Hold on tight and dangle your legs a bit and we’ll be fine!”

“That’s stupid,” Patrick says, meaning each word. “How will you see?”

Pete, busy straddling the bike and preparing to go, twists his head to the side like a confused dog. 

“I look around you,” he says. “Duh.”

It’s quite possibly the worst idea Patrick’s ever heard but Pete makes it sound too logical to write off completely. He explains, again, how simple it is— how fun and easy, along with how silly Patrick’s being.

Really, Patrick only goes along with it to make Pete shut up— or so he tells himself.

“Okay, well, then, hold the bike still,” he says, flushing red as he tries to situate himself onto the bars. They’re wider than most handles and allow enough room for him to hold on tight. Still, the wobbly motion of the bike as he shifts back and forth has him a second away from giving up. “Dude, this is… this is awful. Shouldn’t you be the one up here? I thought, like, we were supposed to do this based on weight.”

Patrick’s too busy trying not to fall to turn around but he can almost feel the dramatic rolling of Pete’s eyes.

“We do it based on who knows where we’re going,” he says. “Okay, you on?”

“Um,” Patrick kicks his legs around, feeling awkward with no place to put them. “Yes?”

Again, Pete’s smirk doesn’t have to be seen for Patrick to know it’s there. “Good.”

It’s a little anticlimactic at first, the bike tilting from side to side as Pete begins to pedal. Patrick’s knuckles go white from how tightly he’s clinging to the handles, eyes shut as they leave the parking lot and escape into the road. Pete huffs behind him, muttering to himself about “finding the hill” and Patrick’s eyes open and he prepares to tell Pete that he will “do no such thing” but then Pete laughs and Patrick’s looking down the curve of the road.

And then they’re flying.

Patrick shrieks, stomach twisting with the drop as if he’s found himself on a roller coaster, and the bike picks up speed far too easily. Pete laughs behind him, loud and whooping, and Patrick swears he’s going to fall, going to get caught beneath the wheels and murdered and it will be all Pete’s fault and—

“Here we go!” Pete exclaims, twisting the bike once they reach the bottom of the hill, still racing down the street with houses and people and scenery blurring past. “Off to Neverland!”

And Pete’s a little silly as he quotes Peter Pan; he’s a little cliche as he insists there’s any magic in this moment. 

And, Patrick?

Well, Patrick’s a little bit of both as he smiles at the feeling of wind on his face, brushing his hair back and threatening to steal his hat, and believes every word Pete says.

There’s a huge difference between racing through the neighborhood on a bike and flying to the second star to the right, after all; Patrick just can’t think of any of those differences right now. Not when Pete’s laughing behind him, telling Patrick to look at all the colors as they blend together. Not when everything feels perfect, captured in one snapshot moment of youth and innocence and summer joy. 

“Where are we going?” He shouts over his shoulder, the words nearly lost to the wind. 

Pete only laughs. “Neverland, John!”

And, for now, it’s the perfect response and Patrick looks up to the sky. Streaks of blue and white and gold greet him in perfect harmony, colors that could only ever exist in a second like this.

Yes, he tells himself. They might be headed to Neverland, after all.

And, just like John, he doesn’t think he might ever want to go back home.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The flowers of Neverland’s garden— a tucked away patch of dandelions and rose bushes behind an elementary school— almost appear silver.

For once, it’s Patrick giving into the childish feeling as he laughs and makes wishes on each petal, Pete the one to tell him it’s only the sun causing such strange colors. He points out the more vibrant reds in Patrick’s hair but Patrick ignores him, plucking a dandelion from the ground and blowing it into Pete’s face.

Neverland, indeed.

“There are a lot of roses,” he says, eyeing the rows upon rows of bushes. He points at a group of pale pink flowers, smiling at their blushing shades. “Those are yours. They mean youth and energy and stuff. Joy of life. Something like that.”

“Huh,” Pete says following Patrick’s gaze. He leans back on his elbows, seated in the long grass with his legs extended before him. “I always thought roses just meant love.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, sitting down to join Pete with a soft smile. “Only the red ones. Or, well, more popularly the red ones. Those mean—”

“True love.” Pete grins, a bright curve in the corner of Patrick’s vision. “I guess I should study my flowers more often— for a while there, you had my hopes up.”

Patrick turns as his cheeks and the back of his neck burn from Pete’s words, a warmth promising his skin’s the same color as the flowers around them.

Uncaring or unaware of Patrick’s predicament, Pete carries on. “Well, roses are my favorite, anyway. It doesn’t matter the color, they’re all pretty.”

“I suppose,” Patrick says, still keeping his eyes on the flowers. “I could never actually pick a favorite. I guess I never took the time to consider flower types and now there are too many to choose from.”

“White roses,” Pete says, certain. Patrick looks over, eyebrows furrowed.

“What?”

“White roses,” Pete says, looking back at him with an even gaze. His skin glows beneath the sun, inked and tan and covered in a thin layer of sweat. “If you take the white roses, I’ll take the red.”

“Oh, oka— Wait, why?” Patrick pauses, looking around. There aren’t any white roses planted— all of the bushes carry flowers in more traditional shades of pink and red— but Pete seems sure that his words are right.

“Because I do know that when you put them together— the colors, you know? When you put red and white together, it stands for something that’s united. I looked that one up before coming.” Pete pauses and licks his lips, leaning forward with suddenly serious eyes. “Because I don’t want you to leave.”

Pete’s voice is a fog-colored plea, a veil of smoke and want. More than a script but less than the truth, it winds through the air and finds a place nestled against Patrick’s chest.

Slowly, Patrick swallows and forces himself not to look away. He can’t do the same as Pete, can’t bring himself to admit to what’s in his mind. He keeps his silence the way these flowers keep their petals— close, afraid of losing them.

Pete pulls at the grass, strands coming loose between his anxious tugs. “I really like… I really like having you here and it won’t be fair if you leave so soon. I don’t like it.”

He sounds like the boy he’s supposed to play, childish and full of greed. He doesn’t understand grown-up things, things like John or Patrick, and how could he? The world’s always seemed to give him whatever he wanted and all it ever asked for in return was faith, trust, and the sparkling gold of his smile.

“It’s not that I want to leave.” Patrick tries to sound like an adult, to pull mature words and tones from every memory he has of his parents. “I just… I really don’t but—”

“So, don’t,” Pete insists and suddenly his hand is on Patrick’s, pressing his palm into the ground. “Why can’t your wants be enough? Stay for another month, for another year,  _ forever _ . Stay as long as you want and just forget everyone who tells you to go.”

Patrick frees his hand from beneath Pete’s, shoving at his shoulder but letting his touch linger.

“You sound too much like Peter Pan,” he says, choking on the words. “I can’t just—”

Another sentence left unfinished; another beat for his heart to skip.

Pete grabs Patrick’s wrist and shoves him to his back, rolling to hover over him.

“Stay,” he says, his voice a mere breath. Patrick struggles to find the acting in his eyes, the script in the corner of his mouth, the character behind each word; this close, though, everything blurs into gold and genuity and  _ Pete.  _ Pete stumbles over every syllable, unrehearsed and unrefined as he whispers them into the air. “If not for yourself then for your friends. For the people in the play. For… For me.”

It’s a cliche when Patrick blinks back something damp, incapable of doing anything else. His heart aches in his chest, pounding like it’s trying to escape and Patrick can’t tell if it’s running to or from Pete. 

Pete lowers, his bangs tickling Patrick’s face. And Patrick can’t bring himself to smile.

“I don’t even know your name.” This, too, is a cliche. His voice trails off before he can continue with more excuses, more reasons to turn away from Pete’s nearing lips.

Pete pauses, breaths away from where Patrick’s bottom lip quivers nervously. 

“Do you need to know it?” Pete asks in a low voice. Patrick shuts his eyes as if this will save him from the sound.

“I… I think I want to,” he says. The air shifts and he can feel Pete smiling.

“And how would you do that?”

A line from the play, a line from  _ that  _ scene.

Patrick keeps his eyes shut.

“A… I suppose…” He can’t bring himself to say it but Pete jumps in anyway, skipping dialogue to match the moment painted out before them now. A setting caught before sunset, amidst flowers that look like wishes and symbolize forever.

“What is that?” He asks. 

Patrick turns his head to the side, grass poking his cheek as he struggles for words and breath.

“Your name,” he decides, switching the lines because there is no script and he has no obligation to be John— even if Pete wants to stay as Peter. “If you tell me your name it would… It would be a sign that you… you trust me and I do want you to trust me.” He peeks out through half-opened eyes, his lashes obscuring Pete as Patrick turns his head once more to look back up at him. “Or… Let me show you another way to earn trust…”

Pete grins and leans down, his breath now hot on Patrick’s face. Everything feels surreal, Neverland and Wonderland and Narnia swirling in all their impossible colors within Patrick’s mind. Grass sticks to his sweating neck and hair, poking through his shirt to prick against his back. The sun’s relentless beam buries him in its heat and he’s saved only by the shadow Pete casts upon him.

Pete leans closer; Patrick does the same. 

He wants to pull Pete down and get this over with. He wants to forget about the world and the stage and do everything Pete said. He wants to promise Pete he’ll stay forever. He wants Pete to kiss him.

He needs Pete to kiss him.

His eyes slip shut once more.

And Pete stops moving.

“Then I will give you my name,” Pete says, his words heavy in the summer air, hanging like fruits Patrick can’t reach yet. They almost sound pained, heaving away from his chest with every desperate breath. “But, first, I will wait for the moment your love can be true.”

When Patrick opens his eyes, Pete’s watching him like he doesn’t know he has Patrick’s heart captured next to his own, like he didn’t steal it just by existing.

He looks like he believes what he’s saying; he looks like Peter Pan.

And then he pushes away and Patrick’s left longing for him to return— even if it’s only to grant him the teasing shade of his shadow.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s late and Patrick knows that, any moment, Aunt Kari will call outside and tell him to go to bed. For now, though, he sits with his back to the house behind him, meaningless papers and paint swatches set out beside him, and watches the sky. The night’s long black coat sparkles with an elegance Patrick sighs at, even his breaths feeling clumsy against the gentle breeze. Mice skitter around in his stomach, as anxious as he is.

The winds blow at the pages of his script; the wind tugs at the paint colors he’s supposed to choose for the daycare.

He merely places his hand on top of both of these and shuts his eyes. Sleep is as foreign as the stars above, taunting him with the promise that he can’t quite reach it no matter how hard he tries. For the past week, it’s been Pete in his mind as he’s tossed and turned, certain that if he lets himself dream that he’ll be greeted with shimmering eyes and evasive lips. Whether or not his dreams will allow him to touch any of these things is a question he doesn’t want answered.

Tonight, though, it’s his phone that jerks him from the way his thoughts were beginning to lull, a violent buzzing against his thigh that pull his away from any hope of rest.

“H’llo?” he asks tiredly, answering the unexpected call from his parents. There’s static on the other side, the reminder that he’s been dropped off far away from home.

“Patrick.” His mother, barking into the phone. “How’s the summer going? Your father suggested we check up on you.”

“It’s been alright.” He sounds as tired as he feels, picking at the concrete in a way that cracks his nails. “I’ve texted, you know.”

“And you know how we feel about such impersonal communication.” That one’s his father, proof that Patrick’s on speakerphone so they can attend to their own important matters. Work dressed up as fun or the other way around; all that matters it that he’s not there. 

Patrick swallows. Soon, he’ll be back with these people and he doesn’t quite know how he feels. They’re his parents and he loves them and, childish as he feels, he misses seeing them everyday. But another portion of his mind, a louder piece with gold-brown eyes, reminds him of his own desires and wants. It tells him to stay and stay and stay— one word on repeat; Patrick would be lucky to learn how to form it so easily on his tongue.

“Anyway,” his mother speaks again, distracted enough that Patrick wonders what she’s doing, “Kari said you’ve been doing some good work down there. Make sure you’re taking notes, alright? You can always use the volunteer work on future applications.”

Patrick’s voice is as distant as his family. “Right. It’s just been a lot of planning and sketching for the daycare, though, so—”

“Well, we’ll find a way to phrase it,” his father cuts in gruffly. “Though, I thought you were working at a church.”

His parents mutter to each other a little, correcting each other with assumptions rather than truth.

“It’s both,” Patrick says, knowing they can’t hear him. “I’m kinda working on both.”

He wonders if it’s fair to feel forgotten even while they’re on the phone with him and he wonders if he should feel upset at how much he wants their attention. It’s not a wish he’s ever had granted— unless honor roll nights and graduation counted— but it’s one he’s always yearned for. Just a little bit of hope that his parents recognize him as more than grades and a diploma; just the dream that this conversation won’t be as empty as everyone conversation before it.

“Hey, so, I wanted to know,” he cuts in during a short silence, one of them possibly forgetting he was on the phone at all. “When are you coming to get me?”

“Now, Patrick, don’t be impatient.” He can’t tell if his mother’s upset or if it’s just the way she’s decided to sound tonight. “Your father and I are busy people and, besides, it’s rude to want to run away from your aunt and uncle so soon.”

“It’s been an entire summer,” Patrick says, incapable of holding back his frustration. “And I’m not trying to run away, I was just asking—”

“Yes, well, since it’s such a big deal,” his mother says, “we were thinking of heading that way in about two weeks. I’d say two Fridays from now… Would that be soon enough for you?”

Patrick pauses, mentally calculating the dates and schedules. The daycare will be done the Sunday after his parents get him, he supposes, and it will be a bit of a shame to miss the small ceremony Aunt Kari had planned for it. She had bought ribbons and offered to let him cut the one at the door and Pete was going to show up and—

Pete.

The play.

A horrible sense of understanding dawns on Patrick like street lights flickering in and out of existence. 

“Patrick?” His mother asks, unaware of how his heart’s turning to stone.

It stutters into an unsteady beat, dropping like a boulder into his guts.

His parents will be here two Fridays from now: the exact night as the play.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

A week of rehearsals and daycare pass, each one ticking by with the promise of the goal in sight. Aunt Kari has Patrick print out flyers about the daycare opening; Joe tells the cast that the programs are almost done. They both blur together— scripts and paint and flowers and Pete— until he’s merely standing in place, letting the rest of the world move without him.

He doesn’t know when he stops staying after rehearsals or when he’s started to decline Pete’s call. He doesn’t realize when that part of his life— the most important piece of his summer— drops away and he doesn’t know why he can’t feel the ache.

Night later, the last Saturday before the play, Patrick awakes to a tap-tap-tapping on his window. He lies in a bed a second longer, eyes open and focused on the blank walls around him. The tapping pauses for just a second before starting again. There’s no pattern other than pebbles clashing against glass, light enough that cracks are impossible. Still, Patrick sits up and glances at the bedroom door.

He wonders what Aunt Kari will tell his parents if Peter Pan whisks him away tonight.

When Patrick finally pulls himself from bed, he doesn’t go to the window. The curtains flutter with shadows shaped like hooks and fairies and, tonight, he can’t afford to let dreams get the best of him. Instead, he softly pads to the front door, a thin blanket wrapped around his shaking frame, and pulls it open with no small amount of expectation.

He looks outside, and he freezes.

Pete is Peter Pan’s shadow, shrouded in black jeans and an oversized hoodie, hair hiding his face from view. It’s impossible to see his eyes in the night but, for just a moment, Patrick imagines fairydust lies within those golden shades.

Pete doesn’t turn to him at first, dropping his handful of pebbles but continuing to stare up at the window. He bites his lip and his shoulders slump and Patrick wonders if he was supposed to receive a script for this moment, too.

At last, Pete speaks.

“Peter Pan’s supposed to steal Wendy from her windowsill,” he says, forlorn. Patrick wraps the blanket tighter around himself even though the summer air warms his bones; the fabric helps him to feel he’s not shaking from Pete alone.

“I’m not Wendy,” Patrick says, voice low. Pete presses his lips together.

“John, then,” he says and Patrick shakes his head.

“Pete, can I— Can I just be Patrick?” He asks. Pete’s hands form fists and he looks down, kicking the dirt. Patrick steps forward, shutting the door behind him. “You shouldn’t be here, you know. You’re not… You’re not really Peter Pan.”

“And how would you know?” Pete’s voice is crueler than Patrick’s sure he means to be, the other boy turning his head sharply to the side and sinking deeper into the night’s shade. When he speaks again, it’s with the same harsh tone. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

Patrick blinks, unsure how to answer; unsure if he’s meant to. 

“I… I haven’t,” he says, certain it sounds like the exact lie it is. “I’ve seen you at rehearsals, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, but—” Pete very well may be Peter Pan— only a child could sound so petulant. “We don’t talk. You show up and you play your part and we’re Peter and John and… And  _ we _ don’t talk. I  _ miss  _ you.”

Patrick steps back, away from the admission and blatant emotion. How can Pete sound so honest, so sure, so unafraid of his own words? Patrick fights to keep from confessing to how he misses Pete— and does Pete imagine Patrick can’t miss him? It may not ache but it does make itself known, wistfulness and longing like a hole in his chest. How would Pete react if Patrick said as much? How would he look at him if Patrick told him every thought he’s had since meeting him?

How would he feel if he knew Patrick was leaving in a week?

For this reason, Patrick keeps quiet, tucking the blanket up to his chin as if he can hide behind the scraps of abstract shades.

“They’ve needed more help at the daycare,” he says, each word a stumbling breath in his throat. “We’re painting it and I’ve been busy with that. That’s all.”

That’s all.

Pete looks back at him, eyes still impossible to see. “Oh.”

There’s something in that word, that sounds, that skips through Patrick’s heart with a reckless beat. It pulls and tangles on the strings, sad and resigned all at once.

When Pete makes to leave, Patrick can barely move— he can’t even blink. It’s when Pete’s halfway to the sidewalk that Patrick drops the blanket, running for him before realizing he’s doing so.

“Let me show you,” he says, grabbing onto Pete’s wrist. Perhaps, tonight, he can be a lost boy and find himself with Peter Pan. Maybe, tonight, he’ll have a bit more than faith and trust. “It’s not a far walk and I think you’ll like it.” 

Pete looks at him slowly, actions cautious, before smiling— the shiest smile Patrick’s ever seen him wear— and nods. 

_ Maybe Peter Pan will whisk me away after all _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s emotions numb him; Patrick’s thoughts freeze him.

It’s Pete’s hand around his wrist that burns him.

It’s too much, far too much, and Patrick’s barely able to stutter out that they’ve arrived when the daycare comes into view, a vision of white paint against the darkened night. Glittering and glimmering, pixie dust and dreams.

“Here,” Patrick says, trying to tell himself to pull free from Pete’s grasp, to step away, to land back on the ground before Peter Pan introduces him to the version of Neverland resting in those sparkling brown eyes of his. “We, uh, we painted it white so that the, um, flowers. They’ll show up better from a distance? I don’t know, it was my aunt’s idea.”

“Oh,” Pete says, stilling and staring at the daycare with a considering expression. “Can we go inside? My mom said she was working inside— she donated my old piano, you know. I was never any good but it’d be nice to give it that proper goodbye.”

No, they can’t go in, Aunt Kari made sure everyone knew that when she locked it up today, but Patrick knows where they keep the extra key. He knows how to twist the knob so it doesn’t make any sounds.

Pete’s all wide-eyed wonder as he gazes around the refurbished daycare, the cartoon painted walls and piles of children’s toys tucked away in corners. The lights are low when Patrick turns them on, twisting the old-fashioned dials to give them just the right shade of starry night light as Pete wanders the building.

“The piano was put in the main room. Aunt Kari said they want to get some actual builders in here before the end of the year— make it a music room and all that?— but for now it’s, like, a creative space, I guess? I don’t know, that’s what they were calling it. I just think it’s where all the left over things ended up. Not that your piano is left over, it’s just—”

“No, it’s fitting,” Pete says as they open the doors to the room. It’s darker than the rest of the building, and emptier. Miniature desks litter the floor as islands of their own, four pressed together in each station. Arts and crafts and a chalkboard; toy drums and tamborines and an older upright piano pressed against the wall across from them. “This was the sanctuary, wasn’t it?”

Patrick pauses and Pete lets go at last, the chilled air replacing his touch. “Yeah.”

“I can tell,” Pete says, moving towards the middle of the room and looking around. 

He doesn’t expand on the response but, somehow, he doesn’t need to. Under his eyes, the room does appear more church than daycare. Stained glass windows shine like fairies, flickering with the gracious light of the moon behind them. Children’s chairs appear as participants in a prayer, knelt down and facing the piano— the altar, the baptismal font— in front.

And, Pete, approaching the instrument, glows with every otherworldly light.

He lifts the piano covering with a practiced ease, sliding onto the bench with his back to Patrick as his fingers dance across the keys. He plays only the first few chords of some old classical song— Patrick could name the composer if his mind wasn’t so clouded by his confused and aching emotions— but it still fills the room with a haunting sound; a complex magic like flying to Neverland or staying in the one he’s found overcomes Patrick’s very being.

Patrick walks towards Pete as he picks up a new tune, a darker melody appealling to the angstier side of Patrick’s mind, and he sits without being prompted. Pete plays with a focus befitting his character, a child wishing only to remain in this moment for as long as he can. His eyebrows furrow just slightly and his frown is a gentle sort, concentrated but not upset.

If Patrick was to name his his happy thoughts, if Patrick was to say what would help him to fly, he imagines he would merely remember the sound of Pete’s fingers tapping against the keys, the slight thud followed by the loveliest of music.

Pete makes it up as he goes, chords and scales filling the air with a certain kind of simplicity that calls Patrick to it with his own— snobbery? pretention?— form of the art.

He places his hands on the keys and adds a harmony that causes Pete’s frown to disappear; lighter notes, higher and floating on nothing but Patrick’s desire to play along, dance alongside Pete’s richer song.

It’s almost a Disney perfect moment, hands bumping into each other and bitten back smiles lighting up the area around them. Patrick feels like a star as he plays, universal magic bursting within him as he shifts his harmony into a full accompaniment, the solo becoming a duet that Pete willingly makes room for. He’s a star, an explosive sun, and Pete is the second star to the right, a world of dreams and wonder visible from every angle.

Patrick’s chest heaves for breath as he plays along but there’s no struggle, no need to pause. The song could last forever and Patrick could let it if Pete wished it, if Pete could do the same.

And Patrick wonders if Pete would. He wonders how long Pete would sit by him, playing their song like he understands it in the same way Patrick does. He wonders if Pete would trade his Neverland for the chance of a never-ending song.

Patrick wonders when his Neverland became exactly that.

He trips on his thoughts when he realizes the shape of his emotions, the hearts and spilling roses making a home in his chest, and his hands do the same. He and Pete reach for the same note, Patrick correcting himself a second too late and landing on a sour sound, the song abruptly cutting off when he pulls his hands away— apologetic and afraid.

Pete doesn’t bother to finish the song and, though it’s unsatisfying, Patrick’s grateful for it. He can pretend Pete needs his added sounds at his side.

Silent, though, conspires against him with its whispers and shadows and Patrick finds himself speaking only to fill it.

“I spoke with my parents,” he says, softly but breaking the quiet all the same.

Pete hesitates. When he speaks, he doesn’t look at Patrick. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He’s still pressed close to Pete’s side; he doesn’t know how or when that happened. “They plan on coming to get me the day of the play.”

It’s at this that Pete stiffens but he doesn’t move away. 

Patrick begs every magic he knows for Pete to stay, to never move away.

“I could probably convince them to stay longer,” he hurries to say, his voice as frantic as he feels. “But, I mean, it’s just… It’s just the play. I don’t know how to hide the play and—” His voice breaks and he looks to the side, the darkness and emptiness beside him. “You know, when I was in high school, these assholes started a rumor that I was gay. And, I mean, I am but… When my parents heard the rumor, they were so  _ upset _ . Not at the fact that I was being… bullied or whatever but… They wanted to know why the rumor started. They wanted to know if they should be worried about me and… I don’t know, Pete. I don’t know how to do this without them finding out something I’ve hidden for so long.”

“Tell them it’s just acting.” Pete’s response is too quick, almost a line from a script if it didn’t sound more urgent than just another practiced saying. “Tell them you can write about it for an application or that, I don’t know, it’ll look good since it’s for a good cause? Tell them that—”

Pete’s voice trails off in Patrick’s mind as his own thoughts take over, a heavy emotion drowning out all other sound. Patrick will be gone soon and who knows if he’ll ever have a chance to return? Who knows if Pete will care to remember his summer escape into Neverland with a boy too soon to growing up?

Who knows if Pete will find another John by the time Patrick finds the chance— the courage, the faith and trust— to return?

It’s all this, all this and so much more, that has Patrick’s shoulders relaxing. It’s all this that has him blushing red before he even speaks.

It’s all this that has him interrupting Pete.

“I’m not worried about the play,” he says. “I’m worried about what they’ll think about you.”

He doesn’t look to see Pete blinking but he knows he does. The same way he knows there’s no other way to end this conversation than with every little truth he’s tried to tuck away.

“Me?” Pete asks. Though Pete can’t see, neither of them will turn towards each other, Patrick nods.

“You.” Patrick glances over at Pete, the scene shaded by his eyelashes as he ducks his head down lower than he needs. His heart pounds visciously in his chest, a pirate fight with swords and guns drawn prepared to pretend there’s anyway for this admission to go well. “You see, a play is acting and I can tell them I don’t mean a bit of it. But there’s no way to pretend the way I feel about you is fake.” 

Pete doesn’t respond and, as Patrick breathes deeply to calm his sparking nerves, it seems he’s holding his breath. It seems he’s not here, at all.

Patrick continues anyway; he doesn’t know when he’ll ever be granted the chance again.

“I like you,” he says, hands tight fists in his lap. Pete’s still, unmoving, but Patrick can’t stop himself; he’s not sure he wants to. “I like you so much it scares me. I’m terrified to say it but I’m as equally afraid of disappearing without… without ever letting you know. I needed you to know. I needed—”

All at once, Pete turns and he’s so close— too close yet not close enough, never close enough. He’s the light of Neverland burning just out of reach, promises of forever within his every breath as his hands suddenly cradle Patrick’s face. Gently, desperately, delicately, frantically— Patrick doesn’t know who’s feeling what as Pete stares at Patrick from mere millimeters away. 

His eyes search Patrick’s as if Patrick’s the one with the pixie dust in his eyes, the lights of youth and fun within his gaze, and he smiles, a bewildered breath brushing Patrick’s lips.

“My Patrick,” is all he says, another happy thought that lifts Patrick away from the world he’s lived in for too long.

Patrick shuts his eyes and leans in, pushing the boundaries further than any rehearsal has taken them before. The warmth of Pete’s breath becomes a tempting heat when Pete, too, leans forward. “My Peter Pan…”

And everything stops.

Pete’s hands tighten, holding Patrick in place, and Patrick doesn’t dare open his eyes, doesn’t dare wake up, until Pete whispers, “We have to wait for the stage, remember?”

If playing piano and pretend was flying the skies of Neverland, this is crashing back into reality. This is the dream fading from his mind. This is Pete clapping his hands a second too late and letting Patrick’s light go out, a fairy who only believed in himself because Peter Pan did first.

And what is he to do when Peter Pan is taking his faith away?

Red and fire and hurt ignite in his veins when he opens his eyes, tears following a second later. They don’t fall— no, think of a horrible thought and pray they, at least, can defy gravity— and Patrick blinks them away before they have the chance.

“Oh, I see,” he says, his voice betraying him with its wavering tone. “This was just another rehearsal for you? Another fucking practice session?”

Pete says nothing and, through the tears which refuse to leave, Patrick imagines he sees a flicker of guilt, uncertainty, pain.

He’s a better actor than anyone ever gave him credit for.

“I’m not a character!” Patrick shouts, jumping to his feet and slamming his hand on the piano harsh enough that Pete flinches, hair falling and hiding his face.  _ Coward _ . “I meant everything I said! I’m not… I’m not reading any script and you have… You have no fucking right to pretend like that’s all this was. Like this is all we are. If you want to be Peter fucking Pan then be my guest but don’t you dare drag me into this make-believe land with you.”

Neverland isn’t real.

Neverland never was.

“Please,” Pete says, sounding pathetically small. “Patrick, please—”

_ “Don’t say my name if you won’t even tell me yours _ ,” Patrick screams, his throat tearing with the desperate words. “I’m really such a fool, aren’t I? If this was real, if any of this meant anything, you’d have given up the act by now. Just… Just be  _ real _ .”

Pete looks up, red spots blooming on his cheeks beneath the moonlight peeking in on their scene from the windows. With such pretty colors staining the glass, it’s easy for Patrick to pretend the shades of hurt he sees in Pete’s eyes are mere illusions; it’s easier than admitting they’re lies.

“I’m… I’m not…” Pete struggles for words, something Patrick’s never known him to do. He huffs a breath, the sound as shaky as Patrick’s are haggard. “You’re the realest part of my life. You have to know that.”

“I don’t,” Patrick snaps, as cold as the ice forming in his chest. “I just know you say these nice and pretty things but when it comes down to being a person— not a character,  _ Peter _ — you can’t do it. You can’t… For god’s sake, you can’t tell me your name and that should have been a sign from the very beginning.”

“You don’t understand,” Pete pleads. “I don’t need to tell you my name. You’ll… You’ll understand later, I swear, but after the play. I don’t want to… Let’s just focus on the play for now, please? I never wanted this.”

Patrick swallows down the arguments— the begging for Pete to return his love, the angered cries that this isn’t fair— and turns his head. 

“You’re right,” he say, fighting to keep his voice even. He succeeds for the most part. “I go home soon anyway. You can have your play but then I’m gone.”

If there was a soundtrack for betrayal and broken hearts, Patrick’s quite certain it would sound like Pete’s hand slamming on the piano keys and the discordant noise that follows. Patrick imagines it would be the screech of the bench shoved back too quickly, the feet marking up the newly installed wooden floors.

Patrick’s certain it would sound like the drumming of his feet storming away from Pete, blurred and distorted by the tears in his eyes and the rushing of blood through his ears. 

But it wouldn’t sound like Pete shouting his name in the distance because Pete doesn’t; it doesn’t sound like Pete chasing after him because he doesn’t do that either. 

It would sound like Pete watching him run away.

And, though it hurts and burns and aches, Patrick decides maybe that was, for the first time since they’ve met, the most honest thing for Pete to do. 

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The smart thing to do is skip rehearsals— skip the play, skip the part where he faces Pete and pretends his love is safe— and he full-heartedly intends on doing so. It’s Aunt Kari who shoves him out the door, chiding him about the importance of loyalty and dress rehearsals. 

“It’s just one more week,” she says. “You’ll survive.”

Patrick is certain he won’t but, it seems, he has no choice in the matter.

He’s greeted with Neverland when he walks in, pale blue spotlights shining across the room and puddling upon the stage. The set behind it is dotted with fairy lights, white spots that could be pixies if Patrick takes off his glasses, and the painted scene of stars and sea, an island trapped between two endless worlds, takes his breath away. 

Actors in their costumes rush back and forth, asking for advice on their hair or makeup or clothes, laughter a constant track in the background. It’s good for a production put on over the summer by some desperate kids and Patrick’s heart twists at the thought of how soon it’s all to end; it tears at the image of how and why it must.

Pete’s sitting on the edge of the stage, legs dangling as he reads a script he doesn’t need. He knows how to play the part of someone in love, Patrick thinks. He knows how to win John over. 

Patrick bites the inside of his cheek. He refuses to think of such things— lord knows he did enough of that by now. Instead, he looks at Pete as just another actor in a costume— clad in green skinny jeans and black boots, a deep green v-neck shirt and a hat plucked from some child’s dress-up box. He might look like Peter Pan, might be believable, but his smile is missing and dark bangs hang across his face and, for once, he appears older than he ever had before.

It’s not until Pete looks up and kohl-rimmed eyes widen that Patrick realizes he’d been walking closer, drawn to him like Peter Pan’s drawn to the stars. He stops but it’s too late, his traitorous feet landing him a mere arm’s length away from his designated love interest.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” Pete says. Patrick refuses to feel guilt, crossing his arms across his chest and looking away.

“Aunt Kari made me,” he says. He doesn’t need to look to know Pete’s hurt by it but Patrick glances over anyway, wincing at the deflated hope in Pete’s eyes. He struggles to backtrack, grasping for conversation anywhere he can find it. “Hey, uh… Nice costume.”

“Huh, what?” Pete asks, truly lost, and then blinks in understanding, looking down with a twisted smile at his clothes. “Yeah, it’s, uh, not really my costume. I mean, it could be but Gerard said he was working on something so this will have to do until he’s done. Do you know what you’re wearing yet?”

“Oh, no.” Patrick shakes his head. “I’m just, I guess, leaving that to the pros. I’ll do what they tell me.”

Amazingly, Pete laughs. It’s soft and barely existent, a flutter of fairy wings in the distance, but Patrick’s heart skips at the sound anyway. 

“A dangerous thing to say,” Pete says, his voice as soft as his laughter. It fades with the simplicity of all small talk, his smile disappearing with it when he looks up into Patrick’s eyes. “Anyway, can we… Can we talk?”

Patrick knows this phrase and he knows its danger. He tenses, fingers tightening where they hold onto his arms. “I don’t see what there is to talk about.”

“I messed up,” Pete presses, leaning forward. “It wasn’t fair to either of us and I wanted to apologize for that. I need to apologize.”

It’s not what Patrick wanted to hear and, though he didn’t expect much, a sense of gloom fills him anyway. “It’s fine. My fault for assuming things, right?”

“What? No.” Pete seems a second away from jumping off the stage if it’ll make Patrick understand. “No, the thing is that you didn’t assume wrong, you just… I don’t have any excuse other than I’m an idiot and I shouldn’t have said what I did. I should have given you a better explanation and—”

“I didn’t ask for any explanations,” Patrick says, voice suddenly cold. “And, frankly, I don’t feel like listening to you list out all the reasons you… all the reasons you don’t like me.”

Pete winces and Patrick feels a slight irritation that he can pretend to be hurt in all this.

“Patrick, that’s not what I—”

“Whatever,” Patrick snaps. “I need to go find my costume. I’ll… Well, I guess, John will talk to you later.”

This time, Patrick’s relieved Pete doesn’t follow, and he hurries off towards backstage where he’s met with nothing more than dust and the wiring behind all those fake stars.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The day of the play, Patrick becomes sick. His insides curl together, beating against each other like waves against the shore, stars landing within craters, but far less beautiful. As he writhes in bed, curled up and breathing shallowly, Patrick cudgels his memory for any reason to feel so sorrowfully.

The existence of the play rises like a cruel sun in his mind’s sky, glimmering and spinning right next to the headache plaguing his skull. He turns, facing the judgemental red numbers of the clock— four minutes until Aunt Kari’s leaving to pick up his parents. 

Twelve or so hours until the play. Patrick’s stomach burns, the sensation spreading to his chest.

There’s no use going back to bed, no point in tempting nightmares and the desire to never wake up, and Patrick prepares for the day with the greatest slump in his shoulders. He’s buttoning his shirt up for the fourth time— his hands keep shaking, missing buttons and messing up— when Aunt Kari’s car rolls out from the driveway, Patrick peering out the window long enough to see Uncle Greg seated beside her.

With no one left in the house, Patrick finishes dressing and goes downstairs. He goes to the front yard, to the sidewalk, to the block over and to the one after that.

With his head low between his shoulders, glasses crooked, eyes sore from the morning sun and nerves sharp with fear, he goes to the daycare.

Nothing about the place resembles a church anymore— not in the way it did when Pete promised prayers in the form of piano notes— and Patrick decides it’s a good thing as he settles down in the makeshift garden, the rows upon rows of roses around him. The children who come to visit the place won’t appreciate each shade he meticulously picked out from the catalog Aunt Kari gave him but, Patrick thinks, it was never those children he had in mind; he only ever pictured the one who wouldn’t grow up.

As if on cue, Patrick’s phone begins to ring. He doesn’t read the name but he glances at it long enough to recognize the length, the shape, the emotions attached. There’s no lingering moment of wishing to answer and there isn’t a harsh rejection of the call, either. Drained and uncertain, Patrick places his phone face down in the grass, pretending it’s anyone else.

As Patrick’s phone rings— again and again and again— he wonders of his parents. Aunt Kari had suggested she could stall or take the blame but Patrick hadn’t responded to those offers. It’d seemed meaningless at the time, the past evening as he wished her good night, and it seems even more so now. Whether or not his parents find out— whether or not they approve— he’ll be shipped off to school for months at a time and none of this— no one in this will ever matter.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s phone keeps ringing. 

It plays a lullaby in an electronic tone, an endless cry from someone on the other side of a small town, and Patrick shuts his eyes to sleep. He doesn’t dream and he doesn’t stir; doesn’t imagine best or worst case scenarios as the sky and clouds keep watch over his resting form. Only for a handful of moments— only for a collection of hours— until his phone, at last, dies and it’s the silence that wakes him from the nap.

Uneven, silent breaths fill Patrick’s chest as he gazes at the unchanged sky, certain the sun hasn’t moved an inch even as it beats against him with a fiercer glare than before. Frowning, he digs his nails into the earth and prepares for the day ahead. 

He arrives at the theater sweating and out of breath, already prepared for Joe’s scolding once he’s spotted. Patrick tunes out most of it, eyes flying from face to face, never landing on one for long.

“ —I get that you’re all acting as children but that doesn’t mean you have to  _ act  _ like  _ children _ ,” Joe goes on at Patrick, face red as he waves a marked up script around. “We don’t have understudies, Patrick, and you’re lucky we don’t or else we’d have John dressed up and ready for the stage hours ago! You really expect to walk in here late and—”

“Lay off him.” The voice comes from behind Patrick, tired and low and familiar. His heart leaps into his throat, jagged and cut edges making him sore, and he refuses to turn around. He can’t face him— not as Patrick, not without a script. 

Joe’s eyes narrow. “Do you think we can have Peter Pan without John?”

Pete’s voice is soft, hesitant, and it comes a beat after the moment it should have.

“No,” he says, barely audible over the hustle of the backstage chaos. “I don’t.”

Patrick aches to turn around; he aches to run away. He aches to find any way to make the sudden sympathy in Joe’s eyes stop because there’s no way Joe or anyone can understand what’s happened between them.

“Fine,” Joe says, no less upset but more restrained than before. “Just keep an eye on the time.”

It’s almost funny that Joe should say that, should pretend that the self-proclaimed Peter Pan has any reason to care about time at all. Doesn’t he know Peter owns the ticking of the clock, the way Pete controls the thrummings of Patrick’s heart? Can’t he tell that Peter turned his back on such a silly notion the second he named himself such? Can’t he tell Pete’s done the same in every way? It doesn’t matter that he’s left a letter off— one barrier between fact and fiction, true and false; he’s played the part of mischief and it’s left its mark on everyone involved.

So maybe that’s why Patrick doesn’t follow when Joe leaves. He stays, he waits, he holds his breath captive in his lungs lest it be his last. Behind him, Pete does the same.

“Did you mean it?” Patrick asks with an aching chest— nothing to do with his lack of breath, he’s sure. Pete makes a soft sound and Patrick continues, their lungs in sync as they struggle for the breath they’d been holding; Patrick wonders how long until their hearts do the same. “When you said I assumed wrong?”

Patrick listens as Pete sucks in a breath, long and high-pitched, a scream in reverse as he, too, tries to play this part without the lines that have been written.

It’s just one word Patrick needs. It’s just one thing.

It’s just

“Yes,” Pete says, the word settling into Patrick like water into dry land, seeping deep inside each crack and crevice left open by an unforgiving world. It’s all Patrick needs and he nearly chokes on it, Pete rambling on because that’s who he is— Patrick knows. Words are what he does. “I meant it, I swear. If you’d just listen to me, if you’d turn around and talk to me, I can  _ prove  _ it, please, I… I don’t want to lose you.”

And Patrick can be cruel, can tell Pete he never had him or that he doesn’t believe him. Certain parts of his heart whisper words of pain to deliver but other parts— bigger parts, dumber parts— swell with something Patrick doesn’t yet call hope.

But he will call it faith.

“Okay,” he says, the word trembling in the air. “I need time but… okay.”

He will call it trust.

He won’t mention how little time is left before he’s gone and he won’t mention he has no plan. But he walks off into the lights instead, prepared to play the part of John for one night only.

If he looks at it just right, he will call the shimmering stage lights the saving grace of pixie dust.

And he has only one happy thought left to grab.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When the curtains part, the stage is Neverland and Neverland is a dream. A dark sort of magic seems to glimmer before Patrick’s eyes, between each spotlight and before each scene. Patrick holds his breath as the lights shine upon some conversation Mr. and Mrs. Darling share, overdramatically discussing the dangers of leaving their children home alone. He shudders when a window slams open on cue, a prop with fishing wire attached to the handle. It had seemed silly in practice but, beneath the eyes of dozens of watchers, Patrick gasps along with the crowd.

And what a crowd. Parents with little children, wide-eyed and leaning forward in their seats. High school friends waving to those they recognize, making silly faces to try and trip someone up. Family members with roses beneath their seats— roses, always roses.

Patrick slips out onto the stage despite every instinct telling him to stay, every strand of his body aching for the safety behind the curtains. But Wendy calls his name— Wendy calls for John— and he finds himself smiling, dressed in oversized pajamas and a top hat, quoting lines he doesn’t remember memorizing.

The opening scenes go by without a thought from him, without realization that it’s passed at all. He stumbles through them, speaking to a group of people who finally listen.

Listen… It’s strange but, when Patrick laughs with John’s younger brother, Michael— played by an energetic boy named Brendon—, everyone hangs onto the sound. Every word is a dream he’s selling them, a lie they want to believe because if it’s told on stage than it doesn’t matter if it’s false.

Is this how Pete feels, Patrick wonders? All this power and charm, the charisma of an actor— a prop and costume he takes with him wherever he goes, a talent in his back pocket. Patrick wonders if the thrill in his stomach when someone gasps at his lines or smiles at an overacted reaction is something Pete feels when Patrick gasps at his touch, when Patrick smiles at his voice.

He wonders if this is why he goes by Peter Pan. He wonders…

“Boy, why are you crying?” Wendy asks. 

Patrick knows the line as if it were his own.

He’s tucked into a mattress they’d set up on the stage, pretending to sleep, but he can’t help opening his eyes. He can’t help glancing at where he knows the titular character will be.

Across the stage, Peter Pan stands and Patrick’s wonderings— his musings and fears— pause.

“What is your name?” Peter Pan asks. 

Wendy responds but Patrick can’t hear her.

It should be silly to see Pete dressed in a tunic and leggings but they cling to him tighter than any pair of jeans could, a second skin dyeing him a shade of forest green that brings out the light in his kohl-rimmed eyes. Some sort of gel sticks to his hair and bangs, hiding his face with twigs and leaves decorating the dark strands. A cocky green hat rests comfortably on his head, the shadows pressing against glossed lips and blushed cheeks. 

They were all given some stage makeup, applied by Gerard’s sure hand, but Patrick had only accepted what was necessary to appear as young or as innocent as the character he’s been playing. Watching Pete, though, with his dazzle of pretty shades across his skin, Patrick wonders whether he looks like that, too. Brighter, shinier… happier than he really must be.

Patrick watches as Wendy and Peter play out their parts, hushed voices speaking of fairies and children who fall from their prams. Pete gives each line with great gusto, just a strand of hesitation holding him back from being the Peter Patrick had been seeing every day.

“I’ll get up again and give you a kiss if you like,” Wendy says. 

It shouldn’t stir Patrick’s stomach into knots, shouldn’t tie up his mind with fear when Pete steps down from the false window ledge, hand outstretched.

“Thank you very much.”

Is it Patrick’s imagination or is Pete smirking as Wendy gushes over thimbles and how Peter doesn’t know what a kiss is? Is it his hope or fear that has Pete glancing over at the bed where John rests, smiling when Wendy wraps her acorn— Peter’s kiss for her— around her neck.

Eventually, Wendy asks Peter to teach her brothers to fly and Peter puts on a pout, a sour face as he agrees. The script, Patrick knows, asks Peter to be the one to walk over and shove the boys out of bed— laughing like a trickster and running off like a sprite when John and Michael sit up, rubbing their heads with groans.

But Peter stays still in this scene, turning his back with just a whistle on his lips.

“Well, then,” he tells Wendy. “Get them up.”

Wendy hesitates and Patrick grows cold as she takes over, rushing to their side to press against shoulders with hands much smaller than Peter’s, a touch much lighter than Pan’s. 

“Peter Pan has come to teach us to fly,” she exclaims. Michael jumps to his feet, hopping on the bed with a dozen questions.

It’s John who sits still and looks at Peter with a feigned excitement in his eyes.

“Can you really fly?” He asks. It’s only the microphone hooked to his shirt that catches the whisper of his words, the hush of his meaningless question.

Peter looks at John but Pete doesn’t look at Patrick, doesn’t gaze at him with the same familiarity they’d shared. He blinks and he’s Peter Pan; he hops onto the nightstand with an ease he didn’t have the first time he tried, when he’d nearly broken a bone by slipping off. It’s nothing too difficult but the glow of stage lights causes it to seem far more impressive than it is.

“How extraordinary,” Wendy gushes with Michael. “I knew you were telling the truth.”

“Yes, I’m extraordinary,” Peter says. Just like Patrick, his voice is low and his eyes aren’t where they should be, stuck on Patrick. He’s larger than life, dark and shadowed and unnamed. “I’ve only told you the truth.”

Patrick swallows and looks down, fingers caught like fears in the fabric meant to be a blanket around his hips. Michael hops around with Wendy, laughing about flying and seeing the world. Later, Patrick knows the backdrop will darken and the lights will be low and some silly trick will really make it seem as if they’re high above the clouds. Later, Patrick knows, he’ll press his lips to Pete’s and expect for nothing— for everything, for something— to change.

“Peter,” Patrick says. The name feels wrong, off, and he’s reminded of how little he knows of the boy before him. “How do you do it?”

He won’t look up like he’s supposed to but he still feels Peter’s pondering gaze, the travel of his mind through the obstacle course of scripts and lie and fact.

“You just think of wonderful thoughts,” Peter says, following the lines as they’d been written. “And they lift you up into the air.”

“But do the thoughts need to be true?” Patrick presses, heart thudding in his chest. It wasn’t his line to ask and— across the stage— Wendy’s brows furrow together. 

Peter, though, doesn’t miss a beat.

“In Neverland, every wonderful thing comes true,” he says. He bends, a hand reaching out for Patrick. “Let me take you there.”

And Patrick, the child he is, takes the hand without a thought in his head— wonderful or not.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Glittery lights and glass props— mirrors and other tricks— create a world of imagination that Patrick wishes could exist forever. Neverland may be merely a painted set but the stage and the sensation of seeing no end to his youth has Patrick choking on every line.

Pete performs with greater theatrics than the rest, each word falling from his lips as if he wrote it. He dances with Wendy and cackles with Michael, the cluster of Lost Boys clinging to his voice as if none of this is feigned.

It’s Patrick— it’s John— who breaks the spell. Peter walks over but never closer, smiling but not laughing, reciting but not speaking. 

They’re halfway through the play and Pete’s playing Peter Pan as if he has no idea what scene is next; as if the crimson beams of stage lights haven’t perfectly mimicked the shades of near-evening, painting all of them in something terribly romantic and free.

Patrick asks for Peter to join him and Peter bounds along after, each step as harsh as the thudding of Patrick’s heart. 

“What is it, John?” Peter asks, eyes at a spot over Patrick’s shoulder. “I would be quick with this.”

And Patrick knows his part, knows he’s to thank Peter for bringing him to Neverland and allowing him to escape his home. He knows he’s to pretend he knows nothing of love, of happiness, of faith and trust.

And he knows Pete will play the part just right and that his heart will tear like fairy wings when their lips brush, never to meet again. Because the boy before him is Peter Pan and he’s playing it well. He’s Peter and Patrick hates it because Peter Pan isn’t—

“Pete.”

The lights lower like a sky collapsing upon them. 

Pete pauses in the middle of whatever line Patrick’s cut off and, amidst the shadows and childish shades, he’s neither fact or fiction— he simply is.

“Pete,” Patrick says again, stepping forward and wringing his hands together. “Or, Peter, or…  _ Pete _ .”

Is it his imagination or has the audience gone silent, left behind on earth while he’s flown off into a land where the wonderful, where dreams, come true? Because he can barely hear his own breath, let alone the hushed murmur of an audience realizing something’s off.

Pete steps forward; Patrick’s anxieties evolve into fear.

“I wanted to thank you for bringing me to Neverland,” he spits out, stumbling back as Pete stills before him. Each word rushes into each other, tripping across his tongue and betraying his emotion. “It’s quite unusual but far greater than any boy back home could have dreamed.”

Back on the script, back to their parts, but Pete’s eyes hold anything but Pan’s mischief and tricks.

“You… You don’t speak of home often, do you?” Pete’s voice is soft but Patrick’s more concerned with how he’s left out the name, how he didn’t tack on the  _ John  _ as so carefully written in the script. “Why is that? I know Neverland is magical but is home so horrible a place that you would prefer the dangers we have here?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Patrick breathes, the word pulled free by Pete’s voice behind the words, Pete’s person behind the character. Each line is something new, something true, and Patrick begs for Pete to hear it, as well. “Home is no place for people of magic like you. It’s for boys like me— the boys that parents raise for jobs and money and marriage. There are no mermaids or pirates or fairies and… well. There are no people like you.”

Again, Pete steps forward. He’s still across the stage, planets away, but Patrick still has to force himself to keep from stepping back. 

“And do you like people like me?” Pete says it with such tenderness that Patrick’s eyes drop to the floor, to the wood, to the proof that this is not a star or book.

“I… I think I do,” Patrick says before pausing, eyes shut tight. He knows the next line as well as if he’d written it, knows what Joe must be mouthing backstage right now.  _ I imagine people back home would love you… _ But, somehow, Patrick can’t bring himself to say that.

“John?” Pete asks and it’s horrible, it’s wrong, it’s not the conversation they should be having.

“I imagine I could have even loved you!” 

Patrick’s eyes fly open, mouth agape in shock of his own mistake. Dread fills him like a promise, the still world suddenly spinning around him as Pete goes red beneath the stage lights. Patrick doesn’t dare look past him, into the wings where actors and directors are surely flipping through their own scripts and trying to figure out how he got such a simple line so wrong.

The silence tugs across the stage, an unbreakable chain between Pete and Patrick. Silence, Patrick thinks. It always returns to silence.

Pete should speak next but, Patrick supposes, he might have made that hard. How is Peter Pan supposed to react to a confession of love? How is Pete?

And, so, as stupid as he is, Patrick goes on without a tremor in his voice.

“So the true question is this,” he says. His turn to step forward; his turn to watch Pete stare with overdramatic fear and hope. “Do you imagine you could ever love someone like me?”

Patrick should know better than to expect an answer; Pete should know better than to give him one.

“Love you?” Pete says at last, his lowered voice sending chills down Patrick’s spine. He’s speaking Patrick’s words— John’s words— but without a hint of acting, without a sign that this is something make-believe or pretend. “I… I don’t know a thing about love; they don’t tell boys like me how to do that, after all. But…”

Pete cuts off, his words falling and crashing against the ground, hidden by the soft mist of a fog machine puffing clouds beneath their feet.

Patrick, for once in his life, smiles and thinks of a wonderful thing— anything to bring those words back into the air.

“But?” He prompts. 

Shadows lengthen and stretch across the stage in the time it takes for Pete to answer; and the time it takes for Pete to answer is the exact time it takes him to cross the stage until he’s before Patrick with every promise written across his face.

“But whatever it is I think I feel, I want to call it love,” Pete says and they’re so far from the script that Patrick can’t remember his own name. Is this how Pete feels, giving out pseudonyms and playing pretend? Is this another script to understand or is it, at last, a truth? “I think— I know— that I love you. Can… Can you believe me?”

“I want to,” Patrick says in a voice so small he’s certain the mic can’t pick it up. “I want to but… but how can you love me if you know nothing of it? How can I know?” 

Pete’s voice and smile are soft as shadows when he brushes Patrick’s hair from his face, sweat sticking strands to his forehead and dripping down his cheeks like tears. Still, Pete looks at him the way Patrick’s always seen Peter Pan look at Wendy— with the childlike awe of finding something new to treasure.

“A kiss, of course,” Pete says. “Patr—  _ John _ . Can I give you a kiss? Please?”

The lights become violet rays, a sign that it’s time to finish this scene, to hurry up before the entire play is ruined. And Patrick’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, his entire body tingling in fear of what’s to come.

This moment is like the script but now quite; it’s Peter and it’s Pete and Patrick’s every version of himself he didn’t know he had. Identities expand and grow inside him, reaching and pulling for Pete even as others hide within his skull as if preparing for the inevitable implosion.

Slowly, Patrick takes Pete’s hands.

They’re warm; they’re real.

“And how will I know you mean it?” Patrick asks, watching as their fingers lock together, Neverland and earth pressing into one. “Didn’t Wendy give you a kiss? Can’t anybody give you a kiss?”

Pete’s breaths catch, a dent in the smoothness he’s been so good at playing. It’s enough for Patrick’s lips to twitch up; it’s enough for him to see the Peter behind the Pan.

“Give me a thimble,” Patrick says, his voice growing in strength and flying across the room as if each word is every happy thought this audience needs. “We talk too much of kisses and how important they must be, protecting them like treasure, but, you see, a thimble can be anything we want it to be. A thimble can be a sign of love and I did mean it when I said I love you so… Forget the kiss, can you give me a thimble?”

If Pete has anything to say, he keeps it back as he leans forward, pulling his hands from Patrick’s so he can cradle his face. He’s still so warm, so real and— suddenly— so close.

Patrick leans in until he feels Pete’s breath across his lips and sees the sparkle of something genuine in Pete’s eyes. The lights around them both dim and brighten, more smoke and fog appearing from props kept out of their sight. The audience holds its breath and Patrick does the same, caught in the scene that is meant to be his first kiss.

“Patrick.” This, Pete whispers; this, the audience can’t hear. 

This breaks Patrick’s will and he turns his head, catching sight of the dozens of eyes on him and Pete.

He catches sight of Aunt Kari in the back— Aunt Kari and Uncle Greg and two more people, two more family members who watch the scene with reddened faces and open mouths.

Something inside Patrick cracks open and it’s only Pete’s hands on his skin that keep him from shattering, from losing his mask and makeup with tears he’s already cried. Both fear and longing keep him on the stage.

“I would give you anything,” Pete says, his voice still just Patrick’s to hear, a drop of glowing pixie dust in the darkness suddenly closing in on Patrick’s lungs and heart. “But are you sure you want it from someone like me?” 

The answer isn’t close to anything found in the script— not meant for little boys and play-pretend— but the steadiness of Patrick’s voice is the best acting he’s done all day.

“Only if you mean it.”

With a small smile, a light in his eyes, Pete leans forward. Closer and closer and closer, until Patrick’s eyes are shut and there’s something warm against his lips and  _ oh, so that’s what that feels like _ .

Patrick has no frame of reference, no way to say if this is good or not— nothing but the sense that it might be perfect, might be right, as their lips slot together like the last pieces of a puzzle they’ve spent all summer solving. Pete’s hand cups Patrick’s cheek and Patrick makes a soft, happy noise in the back of his throat, face going red as he wonders if the mic might have picked it up. 

But neither of them seem to care for the audience anymore, Patrick stepping closer as some grand music swells in the back, matching the constant explosions behind his eyes. It’s almost desperate, the way he grabs onto Pete’s shirt, faith and trust and  _ Pete _ .

At some point, the lights begin to dim to the sound of the audience trying to decide whether or not they enjoyed the scene. Some murmur among themselves and others leave; the rest, however, cheer loud enough Patrick’s sure it could replace the unsteady thrumming deep inside his chest.

When they pull away, Patrick’s eyes have yet to adjust to the dark but he can still see Pete’s glimmering gaze on him, Pete’s hesitant smile lighting up his face. 

Patrick can’t look away; Patrick can’t think of any more lines to add.

Some voice— possibly Joe’s or Andy’s— announces the intermission. Actors and actresses and crew and more hurry to the stage to move props and change the setting into something even more fantastical. 

Patrick stays put. 

The curtains drop their cloak of reality on to the stage.

“Peter, we need your help moving the pirate ship in!” Someone calls.

Peter. Still, Peter.

Patrick’s hand tightens in Pete’s shirt, his throat too dry to speak the words he wishes Pete could hear.

Pete looks down, understanding the message and ignoring it all the same.

“Later,” he says, unraveling Patrick’s hand from his shirt. His touch lingers as if he doesn’t want to part, as if he aches just as much at the thought of doing such a thing. “I… I want to talk with you when it’s just us so… Later.”

He backs away and it’s only when his warmth and light have gone that Patrick thinks to call out to him.

“Wait!” He says. Every head turns; everyone listens. “What should… The show’s almost over and I don’t… You don’t have any reason to act around me anymore. Tell me it was real. Tell me your  _ name _ .”

Pete, his back turned and shoulders stiff, breathes out something that could almost be a laugh. The microphones have been turned off but what he says is amplified— sharp and cutting— anyway.

“I don’t need to.”

And Patrick crashes back down to earth.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick spends the rest of the play in a daydream. He avoids the damning eyes of his parents in the back, the pity that Aunt Kari sends his way. He ignores Joe’s winces each time he stumbles over a line and he pays no attention to the concern each other cast member offers.

Most of all, though, he stays away from Pete’s glimmering eyes and words.

He goes through the actions more slowly and less certainty than an understudy might, choking out his lines until the ending is in sight. It’s something wonderfully poetic about dreams and pirate ships and he clings to Gerard’s shirt— dressed as John’s father in place of Hook— as the music swells and signifies the end. Actors and actresses line up, Patrick shoved around as they take their places for the curtain call bows.

Polite applause for the unnamed extras, the young siblings dragged along in outfits that don’t quite fit. Louder cheers for the Lost Boys and Hook’s crew. Someone whistles for Tinkerbell but Patrick can’t smile at the sassy frown she gives in response.

Wendy takes his hand and leads him toward the front. He wonders if his parents will clap, if only to keep up appearances. He wonders if Pete’s watching this, recognizing it as the end at last.

Arms up above their heads and dipped far past their waists, bent over to bow for the cheers and claps that come with the action. Patrick can’t remember much of the play but he’s certain, either way, he doesn’t deserve such praise. 

He’s in a haze, stumbling over his own breaths, and Wendy has to tug him around like rag doll as they back up and make way for the title character, the star, the one everyone’s been waiting to see.

Pete emerges from the props of branches and leaves in the corner of the stage, designed to be the underbrush of Neverland’s forests. Twigs stick in his hair and painted mud stain his arms. Still, his smile burns like the star he’s supposed to call his home; his eyes are as dark as the space around it.

Arms up and then down. The crowd goes wild— or maybe that’s just the rush of blood through Patrick’s ears.

He’s dizzy and sick when the full cast lines up one more time, Pete grabbing his hand like it’s nothing. It’s warm and damp and sticky and Patrick should find it disgusting but, instead, he only holds on tighter. Maybe if he presses hard enough, Pete’s true name will sink into his skin; maybe he can force some of his own existence into Pete’s blood, the way Pete’s invaded his.

In the back of the room, his parents disappear. 

They never taught Patrick a thing about love or crushes and he supposes that’s why he doesn’t know how to feel about Pete’s hand wrapped around his, Pete’s skin against his own as they make their way off stage. The act behind them, the curtains closing, and he’s still following Peter Pan. 

It’s backstage, in the dark and in the hollering of excited cast members, that Patrick finally gets a good look at Pete’s eyes.

They seem lighter than before.

“Is this the part where you want to talk and have some deep discussion about whatever the hell happened up there?” Patrick asks, wishing he sounded angrier than he does. “Or am I just going to look like a fool again?”

“A fool?” Pete echoes, dropping Patrick’s hand once they’re safe near the exit. Everyone else is too busy changing or tearing down the set, congratulating each other and making plans for late-night fast-food trips, to notice the two hidden in the shadows. “Why would you look like a fool?”

“Because I asked you for your name and you still told me no.” It’s not anger in Patrick’s blood, not rage or even shame, but it sounds like it when he spits the words out with greater vitriol than before. 

“I didn’t tell you no,” Pete says, stepping back with furrowed brows. “I said that—”

“You said that you didn’t need to.” Patrick can’t look Pete in the eye, staring down at his own hands as they tug at the stupid costume he’s still wearing. “You said that the name was only for acting so it only makes sense that none of this was really  _ you _ . So what was it? A joke? A trick? A prolonged fucking method acting session? What?”

“It was nothing,” Pete says, his voice barely qualifying as a breath. Patrick only hears because he’s leaning in, because he’s desperate, because he’s been so tuned into Pete’s voice that he can’t become deaf to it now. “It’s just a name.”

Patrick sounds choked. “You know it’s more than that.”

Pete doesn’t respond to this and Patrick doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than if he’d given in and said his name. Now, it feels less like a secret Patrick has to recover and more like something stolen before he could claim it. It doesn’t feel like they’re sharing the game anymore; it feels like Patrick’s been the one guessing and missing while everyone else knows the answer.

“You’re right,” Pete says. He reaches for Patrick’s hand but Patrick jerks away, stumbling back until he’s pressed against the wall. Pete doesn’t follow, doesn’t move other than to run shaking hands through his hair. “But is it only real if I tell you something as stupid as a name?”

_ Yes _ . Patrick doesn’t say this, even if every piece of him is burning with it.

“I never said that,” Patrick says slowly. 

“You may as well have.” They’re not clever without their scripts and they’re not characters when they’re off the stage. They’re two boys having a fight and Patrick wishes it could all be as fake as Pete’s making it feel.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Patrick asks, hating the crack he hears in the words. “What do you have to lose?”

Again, Pete doesn’t answer until Patrick’s thrumming with fear that he’s said the wrong thing, blinded by the pain in his chest.

“I don’t want the fairy tale part to fade away,” he says, at last. “I don’t want you to realize you were in love with the idea of Peter Pan all along.”

“Have I been calling you Pan?” Patrick asks, unable to bite back the snapping tone. “Don’t fucking patronize me, okay? I’m not the issue here.”

This causes Pete to tense, to grit his teeth and take a step closer. “And you think I am?”

At last, Patrick looks up into Pete’s eyes. At last, he walks until they’re chest to chest and no one has anywhere to hide.

When he’d said those words onstage, when he gave in and kissed Pete, he had hoped that was the challenge to overcome. He had hoped that the scene was all that was left before they could… What? What was he expecting?

His mouth goes dry and he shuts his eyes. 

“I think that it’s not all as simple as you think.”

Pete scoffs and shoves away. Though they’d only been pressed together for a moment, Patrick suddenly grows cold. Still, he won’t open his eyes; he won’t watch Pete walk away again.

But he can hear him and every fading footstep makes his heart shrink with a painful compression. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t entertain the thought, but something sharp still stings his eyes when someone comes closer and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Tricky?”

Aunt Kari.

Patrick’s eyes open and the first thing he sees are her open arms, her worried gaze, and he falls into her without hesitation. He’s not a child and she’s not a well-known relative but none of those facts seem to matter when she wraps him in her arms and holds him close. She’s warm and she’s safe and she only murmurs kind things when he falls apart against her, shaking and trembling as he manages to keep the tears at bay.

“I’m sorry,” she says, guiding them further from prying eyes and gossiping lips. “I’m so sorry. Your uncle mentioned seeing the script in your room and your parents… I tried to stop them but I couldn’t. Your mother’s always been so stubborn… It’ll be okay, though, you’ll see.”

Patrick chills at her words, the dilemma with his parents forgotten until now. He considers pulling away, facing this problem head on and surrenduring to whatever punishment they have now, but only succeeds in tightening his embrace on Aunt Kari. He’s been hurt enough today.

“It’s fine,” he says even as visions of screaming matches and disappointment swim behind his eyes when he squeezes them shut. “I’ll be going to college soon and they…. And  _ no one  _ will be able to do shit about today. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re damn right it doesn’t matter,” Aunt Kari says, surprising Patrick with her stern tone— enough so that he pulls away to look at her in shock. It doesn’t last for long, though, as she cracks into a smile and messes with his hair. “What does matter, though, is the boy who just ran out those doors.”

That boy. Peter Pan. Pete.

Patrick shakes his head, stepping away from his aunt to fold his arms across his chest. The stubborn silence only lasts a moment, though, Aunt Kari’s heavy gaze making him feel foolish as he pouts before her.

“He doesn’t matter,” Patrick says, the words like vinegar on his tongue, all sour and wrong. “It was just a play. I don’t really care about him.”

Aunt Kari raises an eyebrow.

“That may be so,” she says. “But I’d say it looked like he cares a great deal about you.”

The words have an electrifying effect on Patrick. He jerks and his arms drop to the side, useless without someone to hold onto.

“What? No.” He doesn’t know who he’s convincing— his aunt or his hope. “No. I don’t even know his name.”

“Really?” At this, Aunt Kari seems truly confused, none of the feigned ignorance adults sometimes use to draw out certain answers for children. She flounders for a bit, checking through the event program she must have collected from one of the ushers. At least someone would have a keepsake from the evening. “I could have sworn you did. Pete, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, his own confusion seeping through. “Peter Pan.”

“No, I mean. Well. Look for yourself.”

The program finds its way into Patrick’s hands, crisp and cool and only barely crinkled. A page near the beginning has been folded over, dog-eared, and Patrick opens to see the cast listing. Aunt Kari had circled his name and character in the list, exclamation points surrounding the small text. He’s flattered and embarrassed at once, warm with the knowledge that she’d done such a thing. His eyes linger on that for a while, staring until the letters don’t make any sense.

“Well?” Aunt Kari asks. Patrick doesn’t respond.

He knows what she wants, what she’s expecting. She wants him to look at Pete’s character, to look at his true name. And Patrick wants to do that, too. He wants nothing more than to prove that Peter Pan is more than the Pete Patrick grew to know; he’s someone real and tangible, someone who meant it when they kissed Patrick on that stage.

But he can’t. Not so suddenly, at least. 

He finds Peter Pan on the top of the page and quickly covers the actor’s name with his thumb, heart pounding in a way he hadn’t noticed it pounding before. What if looking only looks like cheating and Pete refuses to forgive him? What if he’s invading some privacy or breaking some unspoken rule?

What if knowing his name doesn’t change a thing and Patrick’s left just as hollow as he feels now?

Patrick sighs, trying to ignore how terribly his breath shakes. Nothing can be worse than the not knowing, he decides. Nothing can be worse than falling through the dark with nothing but the promise of an eventual impact.

Slowly, he reveals the name. 

Letters of black text swim before his eyes and he can’t make sense of it at first, convinced he doesn’t want to. Bit by bit, though, they fit together. Bit by bit, they create something more. It’s kinder than if he had read it all at once. It’s kinder than if he had found out by anyone else; kinder than any other swift, clean blow.

Four letters in front of some silly last name. Four letters that Patrick mouths before he’s fully read the name.

Four letters. That’s all it takes for the world to right itself after being upside down for so long. It eases itself back into position, locking into place with a new perspective in front of Patrick’s eyes.

Four letters.

“So he wasn’t acting,” Patrick says. It’s to himself but Aunt Kari laughs lightly anyway.

“Go on, then,” she says. “I’ll keep your parents away.”

Go. Run. Fly away to Neverland. She might as well be saying all this; Patrick might as well be hearing it.

Faith, trust, and four simple letters tucked next to his heart, Patrick smiles and leaves the grown-up world of drama and heartache behind. 

He runs outside, eyes set on the stars rising above the horizon.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Faith— the way Patrick clings to the program crinkling in his hand, tearing at the edges but sticking to his palm all the same.

Trust— the way he doesn’t plan on where to run or where to go, the way he doesn’t question why he finds himself where he is.

Pete— the boy seated with his back against the daycare wall, among the flowers and so much prettier than the garden around him.

These three things bundle together like kindling in Patrick’s chest, like a blessing in his heart. He never understood what it meant to believe in such magic so easily, always questioned the simplicity of happy thoughts, but every inch of the sky seems to shimmer with it tonight.

Patrick walks forward with furtive movements, slow and steady in his feet against the softened dirt beneath him. Pete looks a wreck, half in his costume and half out of it. It seems fitting, though, that he’s not left the Pan persona behind. Flowers tied together with simple yellow string sit at his side, stems broken and petals missing. He’s still wearing those leggings and that tunic but his hat is in his hands, twisted around like nothing more than a piece of cloth. His lips are no longer glossed and props don’t hang from his hair— messy, a tell-tale sign of worried hands and tugged strands. Perhaps his eyes are still rimmed with something dark or perhaps it’s just the shadows of the night. Perhaps that’s gloss on his lips, blush high on his cheeks, or maybe it’s not makeup at all. Maybe it’s just the way he’d been biting his lips; maybe it’s the way he keeps rubbing at his face as if trying to make himself disappear. 

It’s not dark enough to cover Patrick’s light hair or pale skin but Pete still seems shocked when Patrick steps out from the shadows to stand before him. Eyes wide and mouth agape, he stares up and seems to hold his breath.

Patrick drops the program into Pete’s lap and says the one word that could only ever mean everything.

“Pete.”

Pete doesn’t bother looking at the program, doesn’t bother questioning the new way Patrick says his name— the way he says it like he believes it, like he owns it, like it was given to him and he never wants to let it go. Instead, he smiles; instead, he lets out a breath and seems so much younger than he’s ever looked.

“That’s me.”

Patrick doesn’t remember falling to his knees but suddenly he’s eye-level with Pete— Pete, Pete, Pete,  _ his  _ Pete— and he’s smiling back. It’s not as wide a grin as the one Pete’s giving him but it’s there, warm and certain on his face.

“You were right. I never really needed to know,” he says. The wind seems to circle them, picking at petals and brushing through hair. Pete’s knees, pulled up to his chest, part enough for Patrick to fit between them, dust kicking up when Patrick moves forward, a hand hovering over Pete’s chest. “But I do like to think that there’s a reason I was saying Pete instead of Peter. I like to think that, deep down, I always knew it couldn’t be fake. Not for me, at least.”

Pete’s touch is fire when he presses his hand over Patrick’s, bringing Patrick’s palm flat against his heart. Each thud Patrick feels is thunder and lightning, each beat something to be treasured and adored.

“It was never fake for me, either,” Pete says, whispering his words. Patrick’s fingers curl in the fabric of Pete’s tunic, something soft and elastic beneath his touch. He swallows, certain he’ll burst at any moment.

“It’s hard to be in love when you were never allowed it growing up.” Patrick tells himself that the hoarseness of his feeling is leftover from the play, from saying lines he meant without knowing what it meant to mean them. It can’t have anything to do with how dry his mouth has become, how erratic his own heart is feeling as it tries to keep up with Pete’s. “I don’t know how this thing works and I sure as hell never imagined I’d have to figure it out. I was supposed to come build a daycare with my aunt and then go off to school but then  _ you  _ came in and I couldn’t figure you out. You took me on this crazy adventure of acting and not-acting and trying to figure out which one’s which. You were Peter Pan and everyone knows Peter and Wendy don’t really end up together. Every child grows up and I needed something that could stay. I didn’t want you to be Peter Pan, sneaking out at the first sign of morning; I wanted you to be someone real. I didn’t know you always were.”

Patrick imagines he can feel Pete’s throat thrumming with nervous swallows, the heart against his hand beating more harshly than before.

“See, that’s where we didn’t match. Because I thought you wanted Peter Pan,” he says in a voice just as low as Patrick’s. “If it was all fake… All for the play… I didn’t want to break that spell. I can’t be Peter Pan all the time but I could be him for you, if you wanted. Peter Pan is magic and everything good and amazing and… And I’m still just me. I’m not that character and I didn’t want you to realize.”

Pete shrinks beneath Patrick’s hand, curling in on himself, but Patrick just follows until he has Pete’s eyes on his. He’s never looked so small before, never so uncertain or afraid. It’s when he breathes out one shattered breath, one broken sigh, that Patrick understands what he means.

Peter Pan, this archetype from childhood novels and screens, wouldn’t shy away from this touch. He’d laugh with some perfect line, some clever smirk, and the audience would hang on every word. Peter Pan could point to any star and call it his, taking Patrick’s hand to some place where they’d never have to fear growing up and growing apart.

Pete, though, trembles beneath him. He struggles to meet Patrick’s eyes, his smile flickering like fairy lights on his face. He holds Patrick’s hand like he’s afraid Patrick’s the one who’ll fly away, like Patrick’s the one with magic to burn.

He bites his lip, scraping away whatever was left of the gloss he’d applied before the show. Patrick can still feel some of it on his own mouth, pressed on by Pete’s lips on his. 

Does he look half as perfect as Pete does right now? 

“We’re idiots,” Patrick says, at last. “But at least we’re real.”

It’s not scripted and it’s not perfect but Pete smiles with more relief than before, his grip on Patrick tightening as if making sure he’s really going to stay. Patrick returns the smile, laughing as Pete lifts the tattered bouquet beside him.

“I don’t know if you remember but I got you flowers for the show,” Pete says, passing them to Patrick. “They’re a bit broken, though.”

“They’re beautiful.” Patrick’s proud of the way he gets the words out without them sticking in his throat. He takes the bouquet carefully, eyeing the red and white roses bound together.

Red and white. For something united. 

“I couldn’t get you any,” Patrick says, each word softer than the last but no less sure. “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Pete looks at Patrick the way Patrick had been looking at those roses, as if he’s seeing something deeper. It’s not any way Patrick’s ever been looked at before, not anything he wants to look away from. Though they’re outside and night had fallen long ago, Patrick warms as if he’s sitting in the heat of the day. “I didn’t really want flowers. I always just wanted you.”

Patrick blazes and burns, a second star to the right that knows Pete is the first. Binary stars revolving around each other, focused not on some distant sun but on the light they both create. 

“Then take me,” he breathes, setting the flowers carefully back beside them. 

He cups Pete’s face, thumbs barely brushing the corners of his lips. This time, nothing calls him to pull away as his hands slip further back to tangle in Pete’s hair when he leans forward to kiss him.

Pete softens beneath him, pressing back with his own fingers clutching Patrick’s shirt to pull him closer. Patrick goes willingly, lips parting with the desire to give every bit of himself to Pete. The world around him glows with some ethereal light though his eyes are shut, coating them with every ounce of magic Pete had said didn’t exist for him. Patrick can’t get enough. Pete’s smell, his voice, his body… Patrick wants all of it and, as Pete’s hands traverse his body in some wandering desperation, Patrick knows it’s been given. 

No more scripts and no more lines. No more acting and no more pretend.

Patrick hears nothing but the pounding of his heart beating in tandem with Pete’s. He sees nothing but Pete’s smile, Pete’s eyes, Pete’s lips coming to press over his again.

In the back of his mind, though, he’s certain that the shadow crossing the moon as they kiss once more is nothing but a cloud in the shape of the dreams they’re beginning to share.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ One Year Later _

It’s funny how little time is needed for something to feel like a home.

Patrick stands in the doorway to the theater, jostled around by kids rushing inside with high-pitched voices proclaiming their excitement for this summer’s theater program. Patrick doesn’t bother with irritation, instead smiling at the ones he recognizes from the daycare before following them inside. The children hurry into the actual stage room, ready to hear Andy’s decision on what play they’ll be putting on. Patrick lingers in the lobby, waiting for his group to show up. The room is silent but such a thing hardly lasts long.

“Tricky!” 

Pete appears out of nowhere with that god-awful nickname on his tongue, slinging his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and nearly bringing them both to the ground with his antics. Patrick merely laughs, elbowing him in the gut half-heartedly.

“Peter,” Patrick responds, a teasing nickname based on the character Pete had played a while ago. “You’re late.”

“Nah, you’re just early,” Pete says, righting himself and standing beside Patrick, their hands entwined. “Daycare get out early?”

“We had a birthday party for one of the newer kids and then his mom took the rest of them swimming,” Patrick says, smiling at the memory of store bought cupcake frosting flung across the room by messy five year olds. He didn’t mind, so long as he got one of the cupcakes— one of the perks of working at the center. 

His parents weren’t too fond of the play and, while that discussion was still hot, Patrick brought up his plans to pull out from college. Just for a year or so, he agreed, or until he knew what he wanted to do with his life. If Aunt Kari hadn’t been there, he has a feeling the conversation would have lasted for far longer than the two weeks that it did.

“We always have projects down here,” Aunt Kari had suggested, side-eyeing Patrick’s hopeful face. “He can stay and help with those. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

Mouths screwed into similar shapes of disbelief, his mom and dad had given in— on one condition.

“Give us warning before any more of those theater performances come up.” His mother had her troubles with the words but said them anyway, sharing cautious looks with his dad. “We may not understand them but… We’ll try to support it.”

Patrick had been expecting far worse; he took the olive branch with no hesitation. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” Joe calls, walking in with a pile of papers stuffed beneath his arm. “Anyone else show up yet?”

“Just the kids. Andy’s got them,” Patrick says, tugging Pete along as he walks towards Joe. “Are those the scripts?”

“Yep!” Joe raises them victoriously, loose papers scattering near his feet without a care. “Romeo and Julius, bitches!”

“That’s so cliche,” Pete says, rolling his eyes.

Patrick laughs and bumps his shoulder. “You’re cliche.”

“You’re both cliche,” Joe interrupts, handing them copies of the script. “That’s why I’m casting you as the leads.”

“The leads?” Patrick’s eyes widen and he drops Pete’s hand. “Won’t everyone else say it’s unfair?”

“Not really,” Joe says as if it’s obvious. “But, I mean, I can change it if you don’t want it.”

“We want it.” Without warning, Pete’s back at Patrick’s side. Patrick looks to him, vaguely annoyed, but Pete only laughs, bopping his nose with a finger. “Come on. You’re heading to school in the fall, right? Might as well enjoy your freedom while you can.”

“It’s a college a block from your apartment. Pete, it's literally your college and they only accepted me because I helped their theater program last summer,” Patrick says flatly even though he knows he’s going to give in. “But, yeah, fine. I’m not gonna have to call you Romeo, though, right?”

Pete’s smile twists. “Who said anything about me being Romeo? That fits you far better than it would fit me.”

“God, you guys are gross,” Joe says, tucking the rest of his papers away. “I’m gonna go see what Andy has the kids doing then we’ll talk the play. Just try to save all that chemistry for the stage.”

“Seems a waste to me,” Pete says once Joe’s gone, resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder as he flicks through the script. He laughs at a few bits, making slight comments about which character he wants, but stops when Patrick pulls away to stand in front of him. “There’s more than one kiss scene in here. You gonna be good with that?”

Patrick bites his lip, shifting his weight. “I might be nervous. You gonna bring me flowers?”

“Of course,” Pete says back with a beaming grin. “I’ll bring you anything you want.”

“Then, yeah, I should be fine with the kisses.” Patrick steps closer, one hand curled around the collar of Pete’s shirt. “But we should probably practice. Just in case.”

“Right.” Pete’s eyes are already slipping shut. “Just in case.”

Not for the first time and not for the last time, Patrick kisses Pete and knows that this is his wonderful thought. 

It’s not too long before they find out how to fly.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You reached the end!! Thank you so much for reading, it means the absolute world :) Please let me know what you think and, as always, feel free to come talk with me on my tumblr: hum-my-name

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dream (fanvid)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786690) by [justtothesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justtothesea/pseuds/justtothesea)




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